


The Secret Keeper

by 1JaggedOutlawQueen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 77,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25796224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1JaggedOutlawQueen/pseuds/1JaggedOutlawQueen
Summary: Minerva McGonagall - before, during, and after the Battle for Hogwarts.
Kudos: 6





	1. The Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own very little, and certainly not Rowling's many delightful characters. But, they fascinate me!

* * *

Sunday, May 3, 1998

Harry James Potter wakes as the sun first dares to lift its sleepy head from the darkness at the farthest point of the eastern horizon. He deliberately chose to sleep on his side facing the window the night before and left the hangings around his four-poster bed ever so slightly parted just for this reason. Ensuring, despite his exhaustion, that he would be one of the first to wake in the ravaged and war-torn castle.

He yawns as he fumbles for his glasses, momentarily wishing he had done what must be done the night before. Tossing regret aside, he silently admits that it simply was not possible last night. When the battle was won, when Voldemort was dead, he had walked among the survivors and the dead alike. He had shaken countless hands and hugged all those in need, offering what little comfort to the bereaved that he possibly could. And although he felt bound to do it, he had privately yearned for the moment when it would be acceptable for him to slip away from the battle weary, the grief stricken, and the victorious faces of his friends, schoolmates, and loved ones; and simply allow himself to sink into oblivion. When it was all said and done last night, the only thing he really wanted was sleep. He needed, he craved, its medicinal balm above all else.

Swinging his feet to the floor, he pulls on his socks as he watches the edge of the moonless sky fade from black to navy, and navy to a purple that will no doubt go gloriously golden and pink in less than an hour. 

There hadn’t really been time to think about it yesterday. He had thrown himself out of Hagrid’s arms and rose ready for battle amid the thunderstruck cries of the death eaters’ outrage and the heart-swelling cheers of Dumbledore’s Army, and there was still work to be done. Later, when the fight was done, there still had not been time. And even if there had been, he had simply been too tired to contemplate the reality of it all. It was over. It really was over. They had won. Voldemort was dead. And Harry wasn’t. A slow smile stretches the bottom half of his face to the point that it nearly hurts. 

“I’m alive.” He whispers to the darkness. “I’ve got… I’ve got the rest of my life to do… whatever I want to do.” He almost laughs aloud, choking back the sound at the last possible moment when he realizes, with surprise, that he’s not alone. He can hear Ron snoring in the next bed, and the hangings are pulled tightly shut on the other three beds as well. Seamus, Dean, and Neville. How have they all survived? Even before his brain can fathom an answer, his next thought is of Ginny. 

He pulls on robes over yesterday’s clothes, snatches both his wand and the elder wand from their hiding place beneath his mattress, and races for the dormitory door. 

For one blindingly happy moment, all he can think of is her - her and the lives they are about to lead. But, even as he crosses the threshold, he resolves to let her have the peace that comes with sleep for as long as she possibly can. He doesn’t need verification to know that she is still asleep, and when she does wake; for just one moment, maybe two, everything will be good. Everything will be okay - and then she will remember that her brother, Fred, is gone. Wishing it were not so, Harry leaves the Gryffindor common room at a much more sedate pace and eases out from behind the portrait of the fat lady, who mumbles in her sleep about the indignity of being roused from slumber, no matter how briefly, at such an unforgivable hour.

Moving stealthily, with the Great Hall in mind for his first destination, Harry casts the muffliato charm over the entire floor to conceal the noise he’s about to make, so as not to disturb anyone’s rest, and then raises the elder wand high overhead and begins what he knows will be the painstaking and possibly arduous restoration of Hogwarts.

Choosing one spot at random, he turns in a very slow circle magically fixing anything within sight from the badly fragmented stone floor to the ruptured crenelated molding of the ceiling high overhead. He repairs the damaged or fallen stone walls, and the frames and canvases of the war-ravaged portraits they hold. He rectifies massive holes or breaches in the castle’s battered structure. He magically wipes away all traces of scorch marks from poorly aimed curses. Using ‘tergeo’ like he never has before, he clears away any visible traces of blood. 

While reassembling a particularly gnarled and ancient looking suit of armor, he discovers the rotund and stiffened body of an expired death eater in a dimly lit corner of the corridor outside Gryffindor tower.

Rolling the heavy corpse onto its back to see if he recognizes the man, Harry grimaces and nearly wretches at the sight before him. More than half the man’s face is gone. The part that is still there is so badly ravaged that Harry doubts the man’s own wife would recognize him; presuming he had a wife. Forcibly swallowing against the rising tide of bile, Harry shoves up the man’s left jacket and shirt sleeves just to verify what he already knows to be true. There on the anterior surface of the man’s left forearm is the undeniable dark mark – a skull with a serpent slithering from its open mouth. A second glance at the man’s large body tells Harry that the only person capable of moving this man without assistance will be Hagrid.

He quickly returns to his bed, where he tugs the duvet free and tosses it carelessly to the floor. Pulling the top sheet off the mattress, he retraces his steps. Spreading the sheet over the man’s body, concealing it from the eyes of people who will be passing by until such time as it can be properly dealt with, Harry whispers when he covers the man’s obliterated face. “You got off easy, you bloody bastard.”

Rising to his full height, Harry glances around realizing that it took him more than half an hour to accomplish the little restoration work he’s done. People will be waking soon, and rather than have them scrabble over massive chunks of fallen debris on their way downstairs, he abandons his – stand in one spot and fix everything you can see – approach, and adopts a new policy. His new intent is simply to clear a path. Fix only the major obstacles and leave the finer repair work for later. Even with this new approach, it still takes him more than 45 minutes to make his way to the marble staircase and the Great Hall below.

Once there, he realizes, he isn’t the first to rise. In fact, judging from the bleary-eyed expressions on the faces of the adults already in the room, Harry is quite certain that some of them haven’t been to bed at all.

Near the massive oak doors, Flitwick and Sprout are on hand to coordinate and supervise the final care of the departed. 

Just inside, Harry passes a dour-faced and pencil-thin woman with tight curls the color of steel wool and a matching somber gray pantsuit. Talking in hushed tones with the weeping mother of Lavender Brown, she patiently encourages Ms. Brown to choose between cremation or a handsome mahogany casket for her daughter.

Harry scans the room. Cots and blankets have been removed. The walls are now lined with a variety of coffins, already occupied, their inhabitants waiting to be claimed for burial. 

Standing atop the dais, where the head table is usually found, Harry catches sight of Kingsley Shacklebolt, the auror, cloaked in long majestic tribal robes who stands head and shoulders above most others. When their eyes meet, Shacklebolt inclines his head in a discreet beckoning fashion.

Moving slowly across the room Harry steps patiently around people. Sliding this way and that, he weaves his way up the steps to Kingsley’s side. 

“Glad you’re here, Potter. Someone should witness this.”

“Sir?”

Kingsley nods toward the coffin that currently has the lion’s share of his attention.

Glancing down into the open lid of a fine polished oak casket that rests where Dumbledore’s chair normally would have been, Harry’s eyes come to rest on the thin expressionless face of Remis Lupin and instantly, his throat tightens.

For a long moment, neither of them dares to speak. Fearing his voice will crack under the weight of emotion, Harry simply watches as Kingsley affixes a gold medal to the lapel of Lupin’s badly faded suit jacket, just over his heart.

When Harry’s curious eyes meet his again, Kingsley explains, “Order of Merlin, first class. First werewolf ever awarded.”

Harry nods. “He deserved it, sir.”

“That, he did.” Shacklebolt pauses for a weighted moment. “Harry, I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything, sir.”

“I’ve got to escort their bodies home tomorrow and I wondered if you might come with me to visit Andromeda Tonks.”

Henry nods again, this time, uncomfortably. “It’ll give me a chance to offer her my condolences. She lost her husband, her daughter, and her son-in-law because they stood with me.”

Shacklebolt shakes his head. “Not because they stood with you, Potter. Because they stood against Voldemort; and that was a choice they each made freely. You didn’t enslave them. The three of them gave their lives so that Teddy Lupin, and others like him, could live in a better world. Without your actions, that world would not exist.”

When Kingsley closes the lid of Lupin’s coffin with a softly spoken, “I’ll see you again, my friend.” Harry points his freshly mended wand with the phoenix feather at its core and whispers, “Insignis Lupin.”

As the lid of the coffin becomes emblazoned with the name Remus J. Lupin imposed over a fine rendering of the crest for the Order of the Phoenix, Shacklebolt nods appreciatively. “Well done. Nyphadora will be receiving honors as well. I thought her mother might like to have her medal. She can pass it on to Teddy when he’s old enough. Remus would probably laugh and say something about the medal clashing with his scuffed shoes and his threadbare suit.”

Harry chuckles. “Probably, but Sirius would be the first one to point that out. Lupin would just agree with him to keep the peace.”

“You know something, you’re absolutely right. Those two…”

“Hang on!” Harry interrupts. “Can you do that? Give out medals, I mean?”

“I can.”

Harry squints and Kingsley chuckles.

“I take it you haven’t heard.”

“Heard what?”

“Scrimgeour is dead.”

“Yeah, I heard on the radio.”

“They asked me to step up.”

“Hey, wow, that’s nice. Congrat – uh, I guess that means you’ve accepted the post? If you’re passing out honors?”

“I have. It’s time for the ministry to clean house.”

“I hope you mean that.”

“I do.”

“Great, where do I sign up?”

“I’m glad you asked. It saves me the trouble of having to talk you into it. Scrimgeour seemed to think you weren’t too keen on the idea.”

“Uh…” Harry starts slowly. “That is not entirely true, sir.”

Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow.

“If the ministry is going to be properly run, I’m all for it. What I wasn’t too keen on, was the notion of being Scrimgeour’s puppet.”

Shacklebolt rolls his wrist encouragingly. “Please continue.”

Harry shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, giving it a single second’s thought before he decides to be completely honest with the man. “He wanted me to tell everyone what a good job the ministry was doing, and how safe we all were under his management. I strongly suggested to him that instead of just appearing to do a good job, the ministry should actually be doing a good job. It went downhill from there.”

“This was during your visit to the burrow at Christmas, correct? “

“Yes, sir.”

“How far downhill did it roll?”

Harry pauses momentarily, trying to recall the exact words of his conversation with Shacklebolt’s predecessor five months before. “I remember, I asked him if Stan Shunpike was still in Azkaban under just the suspicion of being a death eater. He said Dumbledore tolerated me. He called me insolent and insubordinate. He called me Dumbledore’s man.” Harry shrugs, obviously taking great pride in Scrimgeour’s intended insult. “He said it was time I learned some respect. I told him it was time he earned some. Long as you’re not planning to go chucking innocent people into prison for just the suspicion of being a death eater without any real proof, just because it makes you look good. I think we’ll get on just fine, you and me.”

Kingsley chews on his bottom lip thoughtfully. “Harry, can you be this honest with me every day - on the job – even if sometimes I don’t like it?”

Harry nods. “Sure, I can.”

“Good. We can discuss your options tomorrow… Or next week. Whenever is convenient for you. What are your immediate plans?”

“I can’t leave here until I’ve set this place right. After that, I’m not sure. But, if you’re serious about cleaning things up at the ministry, I’m in. Uh, I didn’t complete my last year here. I’ve been a bit busy hunting horcuxes.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“There will be some red tape to get around, I’m sure, but Harry, you’ve just defeated the darkest wizard of our time. Trust me, the ministry has a place for you. And, something else, you needn’t worry about this place. Hogwarts was built by magic. It will be restored by the same.”

Harry nods. “I understand. It’s just that this was my home. At least, the first one I can clearly remember. It was the first place I remember being welcome.” He looks around at all the death and decay. “I can’t leave it this way, sir. I won’t.”

“I won’t ask you to. Come with me tomorrow to see Mrs. Tonks. I’ll introduce you to your godson. After that, you can take as long as you need.”

“What time do we leave tomorrow?”

“If it’s not too early, I will meet you here tomorrow morning at 6:30. We can have breakfast before we leave.”

“I’ll be here.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“Have you seen Professor McGonagall yet this morning? I need to talk with her.”

“I believe Professor Sprout escorted her to the hospital wing about half an hour ago.”

Harry’s green eyes widen noticeably behind his spectacles. “The hospital wing?”

“She insisted, rather adamantly, that she was alright. Pomona just seemed to believe that she might be in need of a little patching up.”

Harry thrusts out his hand, gripping Shacklebolt’s and shaking it firmly. “If you’ll excuse me… Minister.”

Kingsley shakes his head, impressed as Harry leaves the room on winged feet.

Weaving rapidly between clusters of people, Harry barrels into the entrance hall and does a clumsy little quick step to avoid colliding with Lee Jordan.

“Sorry Lee, my fault.”

“No worries, but where’s the fire? Slow down Potter. We kicked the bad guys out last night, remember?”

Harry nods and waves dismissively, moving too fast to have time for more. He’s down the hall and passed the staff room with all its uncomfortable mismatched chairs before he realizes he’s moving in the wrong direction but when he turns, he catches sight of something that cools his heels, if only temporarily.

Just inside the main entrance, Arthur Weasley is embracing his sobbing wife. “Molly, dear, you have to let go now. They need to take him.” Harry’s eyes slide to another coffin and another somber looking pair of mortuary officials.

“There are so many, Arthur. Too many. What if they get him mixed up with one of the others? Just let me go. Let me go with him.”

“Molly, love, they won’t lose him. They won’t mix him up with anyone else. It’s their job. That’s what they do. Let the boy go.”

“Let him go? How dare you, Arthur Weasley. How dare you say that to me!” She shrieks, wild with grief. “He hasn’t been gone twelve hours yet. How could you?”

“Now Molly, that isn’t what I meant.” Mr. Weasley covers his balding head with his hands.

Realizing that a crowd of nervous looking people, including Hermione and several of the Weasley’s remaining children are observing what should obviously be a very private moment, Harry hurries forward. “Mrs. Weasley…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! What is it now!” She turns to face him and pales instantly, her trembling fingers coming to rest over her mouth. Harry, dear! Oh, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing you have to be sorry for. There’s nothing I need to forgive, Mrs. Weasley. You can shout at me all day if it helps.”

“I don’t want to do that. I didn’t mean to…” She pulls him into a fierce hug as new sobs echo through the hall. 

For several long moments, Harry simply holds her. When she has exhausted her supply of fresh tears, she goes scarlet and quietly chastises herself. “Fred would be mortified.”

Harry shakes his head. “Fred knows you love him.”

Molly wipes her face with her hands and then reaches out for the handkerchief her husband is offering. “What did you need, dear?”

“I only wanted to help.” Harry raises his wand and murmurs a similar incantation to the one he used for Remus. “Insignis Weasley.” When Fred’s full name along with the Weasley family crest are fully within view on the lid of the simple, otherwise unadorned coffin, he adds, “There now, you can be sure he won’t be misplaced.”

Mrs. Weasley collapses into another round of tears and as she murmurs about his being a ‘wonderful boy.’ He gently extracts himself and beckons Ron forward to take his place. “Here’s Ron, Mrs. Weasley. I need to go and check on Professor McGonagall in the hospital wing, but I’ll be back to check on you all as soon as I can.”

As he steps away, picking up speed again, he reaches out to take Ginny’s offered hand and holds on, only letting her fingers slip from his when he has no other choice. 

“I’ll be back.” He repeats.

Before he is out of sight, Hermione queries, “What’s happened? McGonagall was fine when I saw her before going to bed last night.”

Running backward, Harry shrugs and repeats, yet again, “I’ll be back.”

He turns on his heel and disappears from sight in the crowded hall. 

The hospital wing is filled beyond capacity; every bed is occupied, and the space between the beds is not so generous as it usually is. Cots have been added, and several patients, who appear not to have a bed at all, are seated in folding chairs lined up against the back wall of the vast room on either side of Madame Pomphrey’s office door.

Harry scans the room and politely squeezes between two visitors, who have the look of relieved parents who were afraid they might find their child in far worse condition than sitting upright in a hospital bed with a heavily bandaged forehead.

After several seconds, even before he sees her, he hears the voice of the person he came in search of. “I tell you, Pomphrey, I am fine. And I am leaving.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The resident healer of the castle declares persistently. “I want you close for observation. You will be spending the night here, Minerva!”

As Harry gets near enough for his first shocking glimpse of Professor McGonagall, who is dressed in her usual pristine attire but, happens to appear more than just a little battle-bruised, she retorts indignantly, “Horse feathers! If you are going to insist upon keeping me under observation, you’ll just have to come find me in my own quarters.”

She tries to come to her feet, and when it’s plainly obvious to Harry that the attempt causes her pain, he steps to her side even as she continues with her objection. “You have people here who are far more in need of this bed than I.”

“I do not agree.”

“Yes, your objection is duly noted. However, I do not require your consent. What I do seem to require…” She frowns. “is Mr. Potter’s arm.” She turns her penetrating gaze his way. “Potter, if you would be so kind.”

Harry places a gentle hand on her shoulder, momentarily holding her in place as he searches the transfiguration teacher’s badly bruised face. With clear concern in his voice, he asks, “Professor, what’s happened to you?”

“I assure you; it is nothing that won’t heal.”

“Okay, that’s good. I’m glad, but Professor, you look as though you’ve been punched in the face.”

“That’s because she has!” Madame Pomphrey glowers. “And that’s not the worst of it. She’s had a couple of broken ribs, a separated shoulder, and a very badly sprained ankle. I’ve mended what I can, but she needs bed rest.”

“And, I will have it - in my own bed. Honestly, it’s not as if I don’t know what to do with fractured ribs. I’ve had them broken before!”

Madame Pomphrey throws her hands into the air. “Yes, when you were 50 years younger! You stubborn old - witch!” 

It takes a supreme effort on Harry’s part to stand still and not remove himself from a space he strongly suspects is in imminent danger of becoming a free-fire zone. However, McGonagall surprises him by pressing her lips into a thin line, and although her countenance is unbearably stern, Harry has the mad, yet distinct, impression that what she’s really doing, is trying - on account of her broken ribs - not to laugh. 

Arching one eyebrow high over the rim of her square spectacles, she lifts her chin defiantly. “Well, if that’s the best you can do, Poppy…” She tucks her arm into Harry’s, and he helps ease her slowly to her feet. “I will be leaving now.”

Glaring after them, the matron of Hogwarts makes one final attempt. “Harry Potter, do not take her from this room!”

Harry glances over his shoulder. “Do you know where her quarters are?”

“Of course, I do, boy!”

“Then you know where to find her, don’t you?”

Leaving the ruler of the hospital wing with a look of supreme exasperation on her shocked face, Harry walks as fast as he dares with a limping McGonagall on his arm. He can’t quite suppress the urge to duck slightly, half expecting some convenient object to be hurled across the room at the back of his head as he asks again, more quietly than before, for her ears only, “Professor, how did you get like this?”

McGonagall smothers it quickly, but this time, Harry certainly does hear a quiet chuckle. “I’ll tell you later, Potter. Just get me out of here before she forces another of her vile-tasting remedies on me.”

With her spine as straight as that of a veteran military man, and her head held high, McGonagall allows Harry to escort her across the ground floor of the castle. She ignores the shock and concern in the watchful eyes of people as they pass by. Thankfully, Potter seems to understand her desire for as little fuss as possible, and whenever they find themselves in the direct path of someone who is likely to become overly helpful, he politely sidesteps them or avoids them altogether by changing their route whenever possible. When one such detour leads them to a passage completely blocked by a collapsed wall, Potter takes his wand from inside his robes and quietly commands, “Reparo.” When the wand’s response is mildly sluggish, he returns it to its former place, and extracts another. Although she says nothing, it does not escape McGonagall’s attention that the second wand responds immediately without so much as a spoken word. She watches in fascination, but only mild surprise as the entirety of the collapsed wall rises into the air and sets itself to rights. Moving slowly, as she is, he has more than ample time to clear all obstacles before them.

Once past the transfiguration classroom, they step into her small but neatly appointed office, and while he locks the door behind them, she extracts an attractively gnarled walking cane from the umbrella stand to the left of the door and releases his arm, carefully testing the cane’s ability to support her despite her throbbing ankle. “This will do, and you have my gratitude, Potter.”

“No thanks necessary, Professor.” He watches her lower herself with care into the seat behind her desk.

When he doesn’t immediately volunteer anything more, she waves him into one of her visitor’s chairs and waits for him to settle before she raises an eyebrow, prompting him. “I presume you came looking for me for a reason - or were you in search of someone else when you happened upon me?”

“I was searching for you. When I heard you’d been taken to the hospital wing…” Harry stalls briefly and then shrugs. “I was worried.”

She nods appreciatively. “You were searching for me because…”

“There’s something I need to do, and I… I’m going to need some help.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want – well, this can wait. If you need rest.”

“I do, and I shall have it shortly. I do not, however, intend – no matter what Madame Pomphrey wishes - to collapse into bed like some frail old woman who’s given up and is impatiently waiting for the undertaker to come and ferry her off to the afterlife.”

Harry smiles. “The last time I saw you, you looked tired but fairly unscathed given all that’s happened.”

“Yes, well, sometime late last night Professor Flitwick and myself had a conversation. It was decided that it would be best for the teachers to patrol the school in shifts in case there were still any death eaters lurking about.”

“They all fled after…” Harry clears his throat. “After Voldemort was gone.”

“Correction - the ones you saw fled. Did it never occur to you that even after Voldemort’s death, he might have a handful of devoted followers ambitious and brazen enough to try and complete his mission?”

Harry blinks; his mouth going dry.

“This castle was badly crippled last night, Potter. Just because you’ve completed your mission does not mean that one of them might not foolishly seize the opportunity to come after you when your guard is low in the hopes of making a name for themselves - in the hopes of securing his or her own position as the leader of a new dark regime?”

Harry removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose as if a headache is suddenly looming just behind his eyes. Suddenly angry with the situation, and with himself for not foreseeing this, he rises too quickly and nearly overturns his chair as he hisses violently, “Is this always going to be a thing? It is, isn’t it? I’m never going to be rid of his taint, am I?”

Shocked by the unexpected outburst, but realizing that perhaps she shouldn’t be, McGonagall stammers wordlessly before quickly collecting herself. She then speaks softly, earnestly. “Potter, you are not tainted. I promise you, nothing could be farther from the truth, and anyone who believes otherwise is an unmitigated fool!”

“I am! And Dumbledore knew it. He knew what I would have to do. Only, I didn’t know it myself until it was almost too late. Now you’ve been hurt because I didn’t once stop to think about the aftermath. After Riddle was dead, I assumed it was over. I went to bed and slept- like a boy - while you, and how many others stood guard?”

“You more than earned the right to sleep last night.”

“So did everyone else in this castle, Professor! I’m tired of being protected. I’m tired of being looked after. I’m sick of being guarded - like a child!”

“I do not think you are a child. And neither did Dumbledore. If he had thought that - if he had thought you uncapable for even one moment, he would not have set you the task of locating and destroying all those horcruxes.”

“You knew what I was doing, then? He told you?”

“No, I’m sorry to say he did not share that bit of information with me. He only told me that there were things that must be done, and that it must be you who did them. If he had told me that he planned to send the three of you off hunting for the rest of the horcruxes, I’d have given him a sound piece of my mind and a severe tongue lashing! Which is likely the precise reason why he did not tell me.”

Her words work like a pinprick to an overheated balloon. Suddenly out of steam, Harry’s knees buckle and he sinks back into his chair. “I never would’ve wanted to be the cause of conflict between the two of you, Professor. Why should you have opposed my efforts to stop Voldemort? Unless… Unless you thought me un…”

“Do not misunderstand me, Potter. I had no objection to stopping Voldemort. However, there was no reason under creation why Dumbledore could not have entrusted the locating and destroying of those treacherous objects to myself or several of the other staff members here at this school. If he had only told me, I would have spared you that hideous task.”

“Thank you, but…” Harry shakes his head. “It was better this way, and Dumbledore knew it would be.”

“You’d have had one more summer holiday to enjoy before…”

“But, if I’d done that, Professor, I wouldn’t have been ready for the battle. If I hadn’t done it myself, I would not have survived yesterday.”

McGonagall frowns. “Potter…”

“I spent a lot of time being scared and confused last summer. I spent a lot of time being angry with Dumbledore because he doled out small bits of information only when he deemed I was ready to hear them. He stretched it all out over six years’ time, and at the start of last summer I thought that if he had just told me everything I needed to know all at once, all of this would’ve been so much easier. Now I know, he knew what he was doing, he was preparing me. He was getting me ready physically, mentally… Sort of forging my armor, I guess. If I hadn’t done everything I’ve done this year, if I hadn’t learned everything I’ve learned, I’d be dead right now, Professor. I’m sure of it. I’ve also come to realize that a big part of the reason I was so angry with him had nothing to do with Voldemort, horcruxes, prophecies, or any lack of information I may have been suffering from. It’s utterly mad, but part of me was angry with him simply because…” Harry bows his head and runs the fingers of both hands through his hair in frustration.

McGonagall queries softly, “Because he died?”

Harry lifts his head and looks at her in surprise. “How did you…”

She inhales slowly, mindful of her injuries. “I’m quite familiar with the sentiment - Intimately so. It’s not mad. It’s perfectly natural behavior for those of us who get left behind to grieve. Sadly, it probably won’t be the only time in your life you experience such an emotion. Have you never been angry with your parents for leaving you behind; however unintentionally it was done?”

Harry shakes his head without hesitation. “No. I haven’t. I suppose I’ve been lonesome for them, especially when things have been hard, but never angry with them. But then, I can’t clearly recall a time when they were here. I have this vague half-memory of the two of them smiling and talking to me, but I don’t even remember what they were saying. They were just talking to me; that’s all. Anything else I know about them is borrowed from other people’s memories. Maybe this is awful, but in some ways, losing Dumbledore was worse.”

“It is not awful. It’s honest. It was worse because you had a sense of him. You knew him. You have your own memories of Dumbledore, not just those borrowed from others.”

“But, it’s not like he actually wanted to die, Professor. I mean, he chose to do it to spare Malfoy, but… I don’t think that means he wanted it to happen. I think he was just trying to exert some control over the situation in the best way h….”

McGonagall blinks twice and holds up both hands to halt his progress. “Potter, what the devil are you talking about?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I’m talking about… Malfoy was ordered, by Voldemort, to kill Dumbledore. And Dumbledore suspected that Draco wasn’t going to be able to do it. I mean, Draco, he’s… He’s spoiled, he’s arrogant, he’s…”

“Draco Malfoy is an entitled bully, who uses bravado and other people’s muscle to mask his own cowardice. And if you ever tell a single soul I said that; I will skin you alive, Potter.”

Harry holds up his left hand as if taking an oath. “Right, but he’s not a killer, and when he couldn’t carry out those orders, Voldemort would’ve considered it a failure. Worse, he would’ve considered it an act of disloyalty. He would’ve used the killing curse on Draco. Dumbledore knew that, and he was dying anyway. It took some time before I figured that out, but I’m sure that you must have known. I know you saw his hand. The curse from Slytherin’s ring. Dumbledore hid the truth from me for a while, but he wouldn’t have been able to fool you.”

McGonagall’s mouth becomes a thin slit, as if to speak would be tantamount to betraying a confidence. 

Harry waits with silent persistence.

McGonagall sighs. “Alright, yes. I knew. He knew that I knew, but we did not talk about it. He wanted it that way… and I suppose I did too.”

Harry nods. “And, although I don’t think he wanted to die, I suspect he wanted to get it over with before he became a burden, or anything like that. That’s why he had Snape do it.”

The few patches of skin on McGonagall’s face that are not bruise-black go chalk white, creating a sharply unfavorable contrast. 

“Snape was on Dumbledore’s side. Our side, all along - just like Dumbledore believed.”

She whispers in a heated rush of breath. “I do not give a damn whose side he was on, Potter! It was…” Her voice fails her momentarily as she presses her lips together to prevent them trembling with a rage Harry had only ever guessed her capable of. “It was unforgivable!”

“I don’t disagree. I only know that Dumbledore wouldn’t have wanted to lose himself before he died. He wouldn’t have wanted the curse to affect his mind… To make him less than he was. This was his way of controlling that.”

“It was utter vanity! That, and damnable pride!” Her dark eyes burn with the kind of white-hot fury that only comes from the deepest pain.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you understood. I’m not the only one who’s been angry with Dumbledore for dying.”

McGonagall laughs bitterly. “He was my friend, and I miss him beyond words, Potter – but sometimes…”

Harry nods in understanding. “What would you have done? In his place, I mean? If you had the chance to go out on your own terms with as little suffering and fuss as possible, and maybe - just maybe - you could help somebody on your way out.”

McGonagall’s chest rises and falls with a nearly silent snort. Evading his question, she demands, “How do you know all this, Potter?”

“Private sessions with Dumbledore before I started hunting horcuxes. He took me back through some of his memories using his pensive. That, and my ill-fated occlumency lessons with Professor Snape. Plus, some of his final memories that he gave me access to when he was dying.”

“You were with Snape when he died?”

Harry nods. “Voldemort killed him… Well, actually Voldemort ordered the snake to kill him. Ron, Hermione, and I were hiding nearby. As soon as Voldemort was gone, I went to him. There was nothing I could do, Professor - except to be there with him. He cried. He told me to take his tears. He was gone before I finished collecting them.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrow. “Why? What did he want you to see?”

“The truth behind his allegiance to Dumbledore. The reason for it. That, and the final piece of the puzzle.”

“The final piece? Why you felt as though you were tethered to Voldemort?”

“Yeah, that was… “Harry frowns as words allude him.

“I’m sure it was.” She smiles sadly. “And the reason for Snape’s unwavering allegiance?”

“You don’t know?”

McGonagall shakes her head slowly. “I’ve always privately wondered why Albus trusted him so completely.”

Harry lowers his voice, almost to a whisper. “He was in love with my mother.”

McGonagall closes her eyes and covers her mouth with the fingers of one hand.

For a moment, Harry isn’t sure how to interpret the sound that softly escapes her. Then he realizes that she’s laughing, but it’s not laughter born of mockery. It is a dry humorless laughter full of self-recrimination.

“I should’ve known. All this time I thought it had to be something complex – something complicated. Of course, the simplest explanation wins out again.” She shakes her head. “They grew up in the same neighborhood as children. When they first arrived here at Hogwarts, they were very close. As they grew older, they grew apart. I knew he felt the disconnect more intensely than Lily, but I never dreamed … I guess I didn’t see the forest for the trees.”

“Don’t feel bad, Professor. It was a shock to me, too. You certainly couldn’t have guessed it by the way he treated me. I know that you know he was a death eater. He came over to our side when he found out Voldemort intended to kill my parents. He begged Dumbledore to save them.” Harry pauses, backtracks, and edits his own words. “Well, I think he could have gladly let my father die, if doing so wouldn’t have broken my mother’s heart. After they died, after my mum died, he wanted to avenge her death. Ever since Voldemort returned, three years ago, Snape’s been risking his life, spying on Voldemort for the Order. His patronus is a doe – the same as my mum’s was. The last words he ever spoke were about her. He said to me, ‘You have her eyes.’ and then he was gone.” 

“Thank you for sharing this with me.” She sighs heavily. “It will never be okay that Albus has gone, but I suppose it does help to know that he went by his own choice – that the last months of his life were not viciously stolen from him.”

Harry nods almost imperceptibly. “So, last night you were patrolling the castle? Standing guard?”

McGonagall clears her throat and nods slowly. “I was. And, after yesterday you’ve more than proven yourself capable of managing impossible tasks with courage and dignity. if, by not waking you last night, I have stolen something from you, it was not done with deliberation. Any lesser human would have crumbled long before last night. That is why I chose to let you sleep. I thought you might finally have the peace you so richly deserve, and I was determined to do all I could to let you have it. It was my decision, and mine alone. I gave orders that no one was to disturb you. If my choice offends you, I am most heartily sorry.”

“Thank you!”

“Whatever for?”

“Not that you owe me one - not that anyone does - but you’re the first person to apologize for…” Harry gestures aimlessly, searching for the right words, “… any of this.”

“This life is rarely fair, Mr. Potter.”

“I think I stopped expecting it to be a long time ago, Professor. It’s just nice to hear that someone else is also aware of that.”

She nods. “Painfully so, I’m afraid.”

So… You were right? There were…” He chooses his next word carefully. “stragglers?”

“Not many. A few thick-headed clods, but they’ve lost their leader. They are not unified. I daresay you could easily handle any one of them on your own after what I saw yesterday.”

He clears his throat. “What happened to you?”

McGonagall waves dismissively. “Very early this morning, while on patrol in the corridor outside Gryffindor tower, I came across one of those stragglers - as you call them. He was probably intent upon murdering us all in our beds. Particularly you. We both disarmed the other at precisely the same moment. Then the buffoon tried to use my own wand against me. When it wouldn’t comply with his wishes, he tossed it aside; apparently deciding that if he couldn’t use magic to get the better of me, he would simply resort to brute force. He knocked me around quite a bit until I turned his own wand on him with much more satisfying results.”

“Wait. The dead death eater behind the wrecked suit of armor just beyond the portrait of the fat lady?” Harry stares incredulously. “That was your doing?”

McGonagall nods fervently. “It was.”

“Professor, you eviscerated his face!”

She shrugs, her voice as arid and coarse as the Sahara. “I’m not going to lose sleep over that. He was bigger, stronger, and younger. He made me angry. He manhandled me, and when I would not allow myself to be beaten into submission, he tried to throw me down a flight of stairs. He might have done; if I had been just one second slower. And anyhow, it was no great loss to him.” She wrinkles her nose in unmistakable disgust. “The face he had before I bested him wasn’t all that appealing either.”

Laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep inside Harry and explodes out of him. “Professor!”

“He really was quite ugly.” She announces, her eyes alight with something that, to Harry, looks suspiciously like self-satisfaction.

He shrugs. “As long as you’re certain you’ll recover completely. You’re going to be alright?”

“Please, Mr. Potter! This life has dealt me far more savage blows than the ones that animal delivered before dawn, this morning. He is dead – and in a few days’ time, I shall be right as rain. I give you my word.”

Sensing that she would prefer to let the present line of conversation drop, Harry nods agreeably. “Then, I won’t ask again.”

“I would greatly appreciate that. Now, you said you needed help with something.”

Nodding, Harry rises to his feet, removes the elder wand from beneath his robes, and silently places it on top of McGonagall’s desk blotter between the two of them.

Recognizing it instantly, now that she is seated and in considerably less pain than she had been out in the corridor, where he had used it to clear debris from her path, she simply stares at it in disbelief. After several long seconds, she silently reaches out and touches the wand with trembling fingers. Then she turns her blazing eyes on him, and confusion rapidly begins to evaporate, replacing itself with rigid accusation as she comes to her feet. “Harry Potter, this is Dumbledore’s… He was buried with… How did you… If you…”

Stunned to realize the track her thoughts must be taking, Harry hurriedly backs away from her desk, nearly tripping over his own chair, with his hands held protectively out in front of himself. “I didn’t. Professor, I wouldn’t! I couldn’t. It was Voldemort. Not me, I swear!”

For ½ a second, Harry is relieved when the seething rage in her eyes begins to shift. For a mere flicker in time, he thinks he recognizes a tender spark of contrition, but then something rebounds, and the rage is back tenfold, only instead of stammering noisily, she whispers in revulsion and horror. “Voldemort? He? He took? From? He disturbed…”

Harry nods, and instantly wishes he hadn’t done so when one solitary tear slides down her face. He scarcely has time to think that he would have preferred all the noise and rage to that lone teardrop before she is up and prowling aimlessly around the room, like some caged beast.

The room begins to shake violently as though it is sitting on an active fault line. For the rest of his life, whenever he remembers what transpired in this next few minutes, he won’t be able to recall what happened first, but there ensued a thunderous swarm of activity that left him simultaneously terrified and awestruck.

When it was over, other than Dumbledore’s wand, which was somehow miraculously un-assaulted, not a single item rested upon the surface of McGonagall’s desk. Her heavy chair was overturned, and the contents of multiple bookshelves had violently ejected themselves onto her floor. 

As Harry crouched between the front of her desk and his own upside-down chair with his arms held protectively over his head, her office windows exploded because the pressure inside the room was simply too great to be contained. The storm did not end until McGonagall was standing at one of the shattered windows and hurling out a massive shockwave of uncontrolled magic from the palms of her hands that would jettison passed the greenhouses, only to blaze across the quidditch pitch and the Black Lake beyond, before it bent the treetops of the forest, sent wildlife scattering for cover; and echoed, dark as thunder, against the shuddering mountain walls in the distance.

By the time Harry dares to return to his feet, wide-eyed and thunderstruck, Professor McGonagall is perched on one corner of her desk with her back to him. The only observable indication of her inner turmoil is the nearly imperceptible tremor in her shoulders as she labors to bring her ragged breathing back down to an acceptable range. 

Not remotely willing to be the first to speak, Harry quietly sets his chair right-side-up and returns it to its proper place. Too unnerved to sit quietly in the suddenly deafening silence, he reaches down and picks up an overturned plant with large dark green leaves. Using his hands, he scoops as much of the rich soil from the stone floor back into the pot as he can manage before dusting his hands on the legs of his jeans and scooping up a small collection of books. Returning them to a bookshelf without knowing if it is the correct one, he bends for a second armload, only to be halted when she orders quietly but sternly, “Leave them.”

He glances her way only to realize that her back is still turned. Puzzled, he assures, “It’s alright, Professor. I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do! I made the mess. I will clean it up myself.”

With nothing left to do, he returns uncomfortably to his seat and waits. 

It takes her a long time, but eventually she does turn to face him again. “Are you hurt?”

Harry shakes his head with certainty.

When she tries to upright her high-backed chair and struggles with the weight of it given her present condition, Harry does it for her, but then quickly returns to his own seat, determined not to offer more help than she will appreciate. 

After gingerly returning to her chair, she says, “I should not have done that. That was unacceptable. I apologize.”

Harry chuckles. “Professor, you don’t have to apologize at all. I’m just glad you’re on our side.”

He could swear he detected the faintest hint of a smile before she reaches out to pick up Dumbledore’s wand from where it still rests in the center of her desk.

“How did you come into possession of this?” She then answers her own question before Harry can respond. “You won it off Vold..”

“Professor, I think I would like it if we all went back to calling him by his proper name - Riddle. He hated that name. He chose Voldemort because he wanted power. He wanted to instill fear. I don’t think we should continue to allow him to do that anymore. He’s not fearsome. He’s dead.”

“Very well. You took the wand from Riddle.”

“I did. I was able to because it felt no true allegiance to him. He may have taken it from Dumbledore’s resting place, but before the wand was interred with Dumbledore’s body, Malfoy disarmed him. I later disarmed Malfoy. Riddle mistakenly thought that the reason the wand didn’t completely accept him, was because Snape killed Dumbledore. He thought the wand was aligned with Snape.”

Hence, the reason he murdered Snape?”

“Correct. He thought he could master the wand if its previous owner did not stand in his way.”

“But the wand never answered to Snape.”

Because it is a statement, and not a question, Harry doesn’t bother to respond. He simply locks eyes with her.

“I presume you realize what you have here - I mean beyond the fact that it is…” She corrects herself. “or it was, Dumbledore’s wand.”

Harry nods gravely. “Yes, I know what else it is, but as far as I am concerned, it is still Dumbledore’s wand. It responds well enough to me, but I’m still more comfortable with my first wand. While we were hunting horcruxes this year, mine…” He pulls the holly wand with its phoenix feather core from the pocket of his robes. “got badly broken. Hermione told me it could not be fixed. Last night before bed, I used Dumbledore’s; just to see if it would fix mine. It’s the only wand in existence that is powerful enough. It worked. My wand is fine. It’s fully functional again, and it feels as familiar and comfortable as it always did. I would like to use Dumbledore’s wand to help restore the castle. It seems better suited for that kind of work.”

“That’s because most of this castle was torn apart last night by dark curses. It takes unfathomable power to completely undo that kind of damage.”

After things have been put right – I don’t want to obliterate every last trace of the war. Somehow, I think it would be disrespectful to those who died for us if we return the castle to its exact previous condition. So, I don’t want to make it look as if nothing happened here over the last few days. I think we’ll need some sort of monument – but I can’t put into words how badly I need to see this castle restored and functional. Once that’s done, I would like to return the elder wand to Dumbledore. That’s its rightful place, and if the wand remains at rest with him then, someday, when my life does come to an end, I think the wand will die too. I’m afraid that if I tried to snap the wand, or to dispose of it by any other means, someone else would come along determined to mend it – and very likely for the wrong reasons. No one witch or wizard needs this much power. Dumbledore managed to resist the wand’s temptations. He used it well, and he was a far better man than I. Professor, the wand needs to stay with him, and if it does, then, for safety’s sake, its location will have to become unplottable. I know it was Dumbledore’s wish to be buried here on school grounds, and he still will be. I’d like for the wand to be returned in secret. I do not want anyone outside this room to ever know where it is. If anyone out there understands that the wand now answers to me - if anyone ever comes after me thinking to take the wand from me, then I am prepared to deal with that. I’d rather that, than live to see anyone else rob his grave again. Professor, no one can do that if they can’t find the wand. However, I’ve never performed the Fidelius charm. I will need your instruction to make it happen properly, and beyond that, I am asking, will you keep the secret?”

McGonagall’s eyes widen dramatically. “Potter, I am an old woman.”

He nods. “True, but I don’t know anyone who is stronger or more of a force to be reckoned with. I also know no one less likely to be tempted by the lure of the wand. All of my friends, the ones who are my own age, they’re all just starting out in life. Odds are, in the next few years, most of them are going to be starting families. They’re going to have people in their lives who would be endangered if they kept such a secret. I am not suggesting that you don’t have any such people in your life, only that I don’t know of anyone else that I can say with absolute certainty would die without telling a single soul. If we make this pact, and you don’t tell anyone, and I become incapable of telling anyone, then the secret dies with you. After that, no one but me will ever know. Will you agree?”

Minerva McGonagall holds his gaze and raises an eyebrow. After an interminable moment, she declares, “You’ve given this a very great deal of thought.”

Harry nods. “I have.”

“I think you are right. There are few men in this world as good as our friend. However, I also think you are wrong to say that he was ‘far better’ than you. I think you may yet give Albus Dumbledore a run for his money, Harry Potter. I have never in my lifetime been prouder of anyone than I am of you at this moment. I will be honored beyond measure to be your secret keeper.”

  
  



	2. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious or confused, Laird S. McKinnon is an original character. In my efforts to bring him to life, I am researching the Scottish language and manner of speaking. My research is a work-in-progress kind of thing, so if my attempt is less than perfect, I wholeheartedly confess, I am not Scottish. If you find him difficult to understand, I highly recommend you view the article on Wikipedia regarding Scottish jargon. 
> 
> Seanair (pronounced Sha-nair) is Gaelic for Grandfather 
> 
> Also, if any reader is not familiar with McGonagall’s official backstory, I highly recommend you visit the official Harry Potter fandom website and read up on it, as it will heavily color this story.

* * *

For a long moment, they each sit silently. Firstly because, Harry had expected that convincing McGonagall to make such a binding arrangement with him would take considerably more effort on his part. Secondly, there was no denying the magnitude of the moment.

At length, he draws a deep breath saying, “Well then.”

McGonagall nods. “After you’ve returned.”

Harry rises to his feet, but before he can cross the small room, the doorknob turns suddenly, and when the person on the other side of the door realizes that it is locked, they began pounding with both fists so vigorously that both Harry and McGonagall jump even before Neville Longbottom is heard shouting from the other side, “Professor! Professor McGonagall, you’ve got to come quickly!” 

Harry raises an eyebrow and McGonagall nods tersely as she steps out from behind her desk.

Opening the door, Harry takes in his friend’s bright pink face and his dusty disheveled clothing as he inquires, “Hey Neville, what’s…”

“Hiya, Harry, not just now okay? Sorry to interrupt but I need the professor.”

“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Longbottom?”

“Parents here at the castle.” Neville turns his gaze to McGonagall, panting breathlessly as he pats his chest.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific. There are many parents here at Hogwarts today.”

“Yes ma’am. Students. First years, possibly three of them, and one second year. They’ve gone missing, and their parents are here looking for them.”

“All of the underage students were escorted safely out of the castle before the fighting broke out, Mr. Longbottom. You know that.”

Yes ma’am, I do, but Susan Bones and a few of the others are saying some of the younger students sneaked back in night before last during the fighting. Their parents are here, and we think we’ve found them, but they’re trapped in one of the portrait galleries on the third floor. The ceiling came down. We can barely hear them, and I’m afraid if somebody doesn’t do something soon, Seamus might start blowing things up again.”

McGonagall reaches for her walking cane at once. “Is he mad?”

“Well you did give him permission to blow up the viaduct the other night, Professor.”

“Yes, I did!” McGonagall speaks sharply; clearly enunciating each of the words in her next sentence. “In order to make it harder for the enemy to get in, Mr. Longbottom! I did not, however, give him permission to unleash his passion for anything of an incendiary nature so that he might kill his junior classmates!”

“Most of the fallen debris is too big, too heavy, to move manually. “He wants to clear the area.”

“But if he can’t see them, if you can barely hear them, it’s not safe. One poorly placed charge and he could kill them all!”

“That’s why I came to get you, Professor. if we move one piece at a time, even with magic, it’s going to take too long. Plus, move the wrong piece first - same result, right?”

Harry and Neville watch with extreme curiosity, as McGonagall, once again, steps around behind her desk and begins opening drawers. 

Muttering to herself without really caring who’s listening, she stammers irascibly, “Children… Wax for brains!” and hastily places collected items in the pockets of her robes as she continues to whisper loudly. “quill… parchment… wand.”

When she is done with her searching, McGonagall steps toward the wall behind her desk with her hand outstretched and a door suddenly appears where there had been none before. Putting only one foot over the threshold, she commands, “Wordsworth, come!”

When a large white and brown male cat with dark stripes around his legs and over his back strides out of the usually cloaked room behind her office with his head and tail held proudly high, and takes the lead as they leave McGonagall’s office at a trot, Neville whispers to Harry, “Have you ever, in your entire life, told a cat what to do and actually had them do what you say?”

Harry shrugs even as he shakes his head and, mindful of the narrow distance between themselves and the professor’s back, he whispers in reply, “Not me. Never. I’ve seen that cat around the castle, but I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know he belonged to her either, but it’s really not all that surprising.”

When Neville raises an incredulous eyebrow, Harry continues, “When was the last time you didn’t do what McGonagall told you to do.”

Neville shrugs and offers the obligatory nod.

When they reach the third-floor landing most directly connected to the transfiguration department, McGonagall pauses. Leaning heavily on the balustrade, she collects information as she also uses the necessary moment to rest her throbbing ankle. “Longbottom… The names of the missing students, please.”

“Misti Rivers, her younger brother Ripley; along with their friends, Magnus Thorne, and Cordelia Drakes.”

McGonagall’s face pales. “Magnus Thorne?”

“Yes ma’am. “The short little first year who really likes hip hop music – and he can dance really well.”

The transfiguration teacher doesn’t dare to smile. “Yes, thank you. I’ve seen him do so. Now then, go and fetch Hagrid for us. I believe you will find him in his vegetable patch with Professor Sprout. They should be collecting herbs and saps of a medicinal nature to aid Madame Pomphrey in her care of the injured - and while you’re at it, I suppose you should let her know to expect a few more in hospital.”

Neville nods. “Back in a flash.” He bolts away, taking the stairs three at a time, just as the color in his face was starting to return to normal.

Rising once more to her full height, and squaring her shoulders, McGonagall puts purpose back in her faltering stride and somehow, despite her own injuries, manages to stay three paces ahead of Harry.

Just through the northern entrance of the portrait gallery, she stops abruptly, causing Harry to nearly collide with her. She points her wand and commands, “Silencio,” just in time to stop a seventh-year student who is merely a syllable away from casting the Sonorous charm on his own throat.

Annoyed, and glaring, until the forcibly muted student turns to realize who has stopped him, he taps his closest classmate on the shoulder and points at McGonagall. His chosen spokesperson stammers, “Professor, he only wanted to make certain the trapped kids can hear us through all the debris.”

McGonagall looks around at the tense faces of students and adults alike. She takes in the destroyed room that is more than half filled with jagged and daunting heaps of collapsed stone and mortar and murmurs, “Saints preserve us!” before demanding, “I don’t suppose it occurred to either of you that a bullhorn, or the effect of one, might not be the most practical option available to you?”

Both boys shrug. 

Taking charge, McGonagall reaches out and removes the wand from the outstretched hand of the now silent boy. “I want every student, be they past, present, or future, out of this room at once - and quietly, please.”

When she is met with incredulous and resistant stares, she raises a formidable eyebrow. “There are three exits to choose from, pick one and go through it. Now! Parents – if your child or children is walking out of this room at this moment, please go with them.” Mr. and Mrs. Drakes, Mr. Rivers, Ms. Pierpont… All of you, with me, please.

The four frightened parents gather around her, ashen-faced and hopeful.

“I’m going to get your children out.”

Mr. Drakes looks her over, head to toe and back again, before asking doubtfully, “Shouldn’t we call some sort of structural specialist.”

“I understand your asking, believe me, I do. However, at the moment, the name of a structural specialist who also happens to be a witch or wizard doesn’t come readily to mind, and there are very strict rules by which muggles are allowed on castle grounds. I cannot invite just anyone. I know of only one and, to the best of my knowledge, at this moment, he’s on the most northern shore of Caithness. I fear, it would take far too long to go and fetch him. I don’t want your children to wait that long.”

“Lady, if you think we give a damn about the rules right now…We sent our little girl to you and…”

When his booming voice falters and catches in his throat, his wife puts an arm around him. “Sweetheart don’t shout at her. She’s trying to help us.”

Penelope Pierpont steps forward, and McGonagall knows, without asking, what her most prevalent concern for her brother is, so she asks. “Do you know when Magnus last had his insulin?”

The delicately featured blonde shakes her head. “Not precisely, no. I can only take a good guess. I know he’s only 11, but he’s been taught to be very responsible about his medication. She presses a small bright red nylon dop kit into McGonagall’s hands. “Magnus doesn’t like taking his medication in front of his friends. He thinks it makes him look weak. He would’ve had insulin with him when he left the castle, but if he only had one injection pen with him - well, if he’s not in trouble already, he soon will be. He needs an injection as soon as possible. He can tell you how to do it. If he’s not conscious or if he is conscious but incoherent, talking nonsense or behaving erratically, just jab the lance into his thigh or the fleshy part of his belly and press the plunger. It’s very easy to use.”

McGonagall nods fervently. “Understood.” She turns her gaze to the remaining parent in the group who has yet to speak. “Mr. Rivers?”

“I don’t care who gets them out. I’ve already lost their mother. Just bring me my children.”

She nods succinctly.

“Professor?”

McGonagall turns, a frown already emerging on her battered face. “Mr. Potter, I believe I was quite clear. All students, out!”

“He only wanted to let you know that I am here.” Lee Jordan steps forward. “My fiancée is outside with her grandfather.”

McGonagall nods erratically. “How nice for you, Mr. Jordan. If you’ll excuse me.” She steps toward the massive hole in the ceiling and the pile of rubble that towers below it.

Jordan perseveres, trying to get his point across. “My fiancée’s name is Karolyn McKinnon. She graduated the year before I did.”

The professor’s head snaps around as his words grab her full attention. “You’re telling me that Laird McKinnon is outside this castle at this very moment?”

“He is. Karolyn went home. When she told him what happened here, he insisted on coming at once.” Lee adds more quietly, “It seems, he’s quite concerned about you, Professor.”

McGonagall shakes her head in silent, but unmistakable exasperation. Stepping quickly to one side of the room, away from the others, she pulls Harry along with her; her hand wrapped around his upper arm. Lowering her voice to a confidential level, she says, “You’ll have to let him in. He can’t come in without a proper escort. He’s a muggle who is not related to a current student. And you’ll need to use your second wand. The one made of holly will not do. You must be holding his right hand when the veil is lifted, and it must be a silent incantation. One spoken aloud will have no effect.”

Harry nods. “The incantation?”

“You must not be distracted. You must think very clearly; Castelleum Revelio.” She points her own wand at his chest and does not speak, but a soft spark of deep purple flame pierces his chest and causes his heart and lungs to fizzle pleasantly. “And you will only be able to do it for the next four minutes. Do you think you can handle it?”

Harry nods. “I’ll be back in less than five. What should I tell him?”

“Just get him in here, Potter. He’ll figure out the rest for himself.”

His mission clear, Harry sprints away. 

Before McGonagall can turn, another student, a sandy-haired seventh year with large expressive hazel eyes is beckoning from the doorway that Harry only just exited. “What is it, Mr. Benjamin?”

He dares to put a foot halfway over the threshold and she snaps harshly, “Curtis Benjamin, use words. There is absolutely no need for you to set foot back into this room!” Keenly aware that other students are listening just beyond the door, she adds, “The next student who disregards that will be spending their final hours here in detention!”

Outside in the hallway, a few students can be heard groaning quietly as the voice of one calls out above the others, “Professor you should let Benji help you. He’s an animagus, his animal form is a Norwich terrier. They’re built for burrowing.”

Interpreting the scowl on her face, the boy affectionately dubbed Benji says quietly, “She knows that Dean. Who do ye think taught me how to transform myself?”

Laughter rises in the corridor as Dean Thomas mutters, “Oh yeah. Right then. Sorry about that, Professor. Just trying to help.”

“While I do appreciate the offer for help, gentlemen, I will not endanger the life of one student to save another. Furthermore, communication between witches and wizards in their animal forms takes a great deal of practice. As such, I will be better off with my own cat.”

Nodding his understanding, Benji holds a small shortwave radio receiver, no bigger than a pack of playing cards, in the palm of his outstretched hand. “At least take one of my handhelds, Professor. When you reach the students, if you’re able to resume your human form, we will be able to talk to you without shouting.”

Stepping quickly back to the door and accepting the item, she looks it over.

“I have the other one. You can talk to me. Just press this button here on the side and hold it down while you are speaking, then, when you’re done talking, let go. Just try to keep it within arm’s length.”

McGonagall almost smiles. “I know how the contraption works, Mr. Benjamin, but if I carry it on my person it will be transformed with me. I’ve rarely practiced with electronic devices from the muggle world. They are full of wires and circuitry. If I muddle the transfiguration, it is highly likely the thing will become useless.”

Benji thinks this over momentarily. “Wordsworth is a fairly big boy. He’s probably directly descended from tigers. I don’t think it will be too heavy for him to carry if he has a proper harness of some kind.”

McGonagall lifts her wand into the air. Without speaking, she calls for the deep emerald green harness her cat rarely wears unless leaving the castle. In a matter of seconds, it comes floating up to the door of the portrait gallery and hovers there just above Curtis Benjamin’s left shoulder

Purely to spare the badly bruised transfiguration teacher the discomfort of kneeling, Benji falls to one knee long enough to take care of the necessary task for her. Holding out an inviting hand, he waits for the cat to approach and sniff his outstretched fingers.

Wordsworth rubs his own head against the palm of the boy’s hand with intent; effectively self-petting, until Curtis takes the hint and voluntarily rubs the cat’s ears.

“Hiya Wordsworth, remember me? We’re old pals, right? I’m gonna put this thing on you so that you can help us. I know you’re not fond of it, but don’t bite me okay, buddy?”

As soon as he tries to slip the cat’s harness into place, Wordsworth arches his back and hisses menacingly.

Knowing it would go this way, McGonagall sighs with resignation. Just as she begins to transform, Madame Pomphrey, Professor Flitwick, Hagrid, and Neville – every bit as pink-faced as before - all rush into view in the corridor outside the room.

“Professor McGonagall, don’t you dare! You’re in no condition to tr…”

The deed is done before the words are completely out and Madame Pomphrey sighs in disgust as the silver tabby cat on the floor at Curtis Benjamin’s feet shudders in unmistakable pain.

“I keep trying to tell you, Minerva.”

Now, incapable of putting her lack of interest in Madame Pomphrey’s objections into words, the silver feline with spectacle shaped markings on her face instead, chooses to focus on the male cat at her side. Limping badly, now in possession of two injured legs instead of just one, the slender silver cat circles the larger male who is easily more than twice her body weight.

All those capable of watching, do so with wide curious eyes and, in some cases, gaping mouths as the two cats touch noses, their whiskers brushing together in ways that only they understand while their ears twitch and pivot, sending and receiving additional undecipherable messages.

The silver cat vocalizes softly, hitting an oddly mismatched assortment of almost musical notes that human beings are not capable of replicating in their own throats, much less understanding. Wordsworth makes a loud tisking noise that isn’t one, but still sounds very much like a sneeze, and it is generally accepted to be a sound of disagreement, but when the silver feline yowls, a high-pitched whine that comes ominously from deep inside her chest, Wordsworth relents and steps to the boy’s side once more and allows his harness to be slid easily into place and fastened securely around his body.

Next, Benji takes the handheld two-way radio receiver and tucks it securely under the wide chest strap of the harness. When he is certain that it will not be jostled free by the cat’s natural movement, he returns to his full height and gives the silver tabby cat two thumbs up. “He’s good to go, Professor. Be careful. I’ve got mine.” He jiggles the twin of the two-way communication device now held in Wordsworth’s possession. “We’ll be right here. Uh… In the corridor with Professor Flitwick and the others.”

The charms teacher nods to her, and the silver tabby cat walks slowly, limping, toward the base of the massive pile of stone, masonry, and other unidentifiable debris. Mindful of the fact that, presently, her balance is less than 100% cat-like, she carefully tests the stability of the rubble underfoot before venturing farther on to the next piece. She circles the downed ceiling twice in the company of her own feline companion, both of them climbing higher with each rotation.

Mr. Drakes is a lean man with a narrow face and an ebony colored buzz cut. Staring after the cats as they disappear through a minute opening in the pile of rubble, he runs his fingers over the top of his head in frustration and demands with undeniable disbelief. “Are we really doing this? Someone please explain to me why we’re relying on a couple of cats to rescue our children, who may or may not have just been buried alive.”

Benji tries to be the voice of reason. Making eye contact with each of the parents, he says calmly, “Sir, you aren’t relying on a couple of cats. You’re relying on the headmistress of this school, who happens to be able to transform herself into a cat. She can make herself small enough to get through an opening in that mess that nobody else would have a prayer of getting through. If anyone can reach your children, it’s her. She can use cat’s eyes to see in what, I’m sure, must be near total darkness. As a cat, she also has both a heightened sense of smell and hearing which will only make it that much easier for her to locate your children. When she does find them, if she has enough room to do so, she will resume her human form, and she will get them out.”

Mr. Drakes shakes his head in uncertainty. “This is my fault. I told Dana it was too far away. I should’ve put my foot down. I should’ve said, ‘No absolutely not, we are not sending our daughter that far away from home.” He reaches for his wife and hugs her. “There’s absolutely no reason why I couldn’t have just taught her myself.”

“Mr. Drakes, this is not anybody’s fault. Things just happen, and sometimes, when they do, children get excited. We do things we know we’re not supposed to do. My friends and I certainly did our share of things like that our first couple of years here.”

“What if she needs help?”

Flitwick replies genially in his squeaky voice. “Then, she will ask for it.”

“Oh, it’s as simple as that, is it?”

“Yes, sir. It is. Help always comes to those who ask for it at Hogwarts, but honestly, Mr. Drakes, of all the people at this school, Professor McGonagall is the one least likely to need help.”

“There’s a giant hole in the ceiling, and she just disappeared from sight beneath a massive pile of collapsed stone. How will help come?”

“That remains to be seen, but I promise you, if she asks for it, it will come.”

“What if you all are just wrong? What if that old woman can’t get them out?”

Benji smiles but has the good sense to refrain from laughing. “Mr. Drakes all parents meet with Professor McGonagall before their children ever attend their first day here at this school. Therefore, I know this is not your first meeting with her. I know you trusted her. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have sent your daughter to Hogwarts. Please, don’t forget that now. I really don’t think any of you need to worry that she’s not equal to the task. The night before last, I saw her step in front of someone else to protect them. I saw her duel Lord Voldemort. Obviously, she survived. After that, I really don’t think that pile of rocks, even if it is twenty-five feet high, is going to present much of a challenge for her but, if I am wrong, and she can’t get them out, then someone else will. Until that happens, she will be with your children. She will make sure that they are not alone.”

*****

Harry nearly runs right through the fat friar on his way out of the castle.

“I’m sorry sir.”

“No worries, dear boy, no worries. What’s your hurry?”

“Sorry, I don’t have time to explain. It’s an emerg… Hang on! Friar, can you round up the other ghosts in the castle?”

“But of course.”

“Great, get as many of the other ghosts as quickly as you possibly can and go to the main portrait gallery on the third floor. There’s a situation there that I’m pretty sure you all can help with. Some kids are trapped and may be in trouble. Professor McGonagall is there already.”

The fat friar nods. “Count on me.” He shoots up through the ceiling and out of sight.

Still running, Harry leaves the castle through the entrance closest to the whomping willow and shields his eyes against the glare of the sunlight as he sprints across the grounds to the castle’s main courtyard and the decimated viaduct beyond.

It takes him no time at all to spot the pretty girl with a mulatto complexion, as she steps out of the passenger-side door of an exceptionally well looked after classic American Ford painted forest green that doubtlessly rolled off the assembly line sometime in the fifties. 

She waves to Harry, and when he has come as close as he can, standing near the edge of the yawning gap in the middle of the viaduct, she calls out. “Hey, Potter, we can’t get across. My grandfather can’t apparate, and I don’t think I can fix this by myself.”

“On my way.” Harry assures and points the wand he is already clutching. “Pontem Reparo.”

Even as massive chunks of the felled bridge begin to rise and settle themselves into a state of repair, Harry walks, keeping pace with the edge as it expands in length and mends. All but heedless to the ground-rumbling vibrations he’s causing, he moves as quickly as he can. When he’s near enough to them, he points his wand at the opposite side of the gap and repeats, “Pontem Reparo.” Thus, causing the bridge to mend from both ends simultaneously. 

When the gap is still more than six feet from closure, a man more than 6 feet 2 inches tall, who looks, from a distance, to be in his early fifties slips out from behind the wheel and slams the driver’s door of the truck. In possession of a lion’s mane of graying dark red hair, a full beard, and a mustache, he walks with the agile gait of someone much more his junior. Without any visible traces of fear, he approaches his side of the mending bridge and, taking wide steps, sometimes small jumps, he rushes easily across the raised sections of stone in the gap even before the viaduct is completely repaired as though he were simply crossing a country stream courtesy of slippery stones, as opposed to being 100 feet above certain death should he fall. 

“Nicely done lad!” He declares with a heavy Scottish brogue. Reaching Harry, he offers a handshake courtesy of a three-fingered metal prosthetic that resembles an eagle’s talon, and when Harry accepts without flinching, his gray eyes twinkle with merry appreciation.

“You’re pretty impressive yourself, sir. I don’t know that I would’ve hopscotched across that gap half as well.”

“Spend more than half yer life trodding the planks of narrow scaffolding hundreds of feet above solid earth, and the other half being knocked aboot by the storm-tossed sea, you ken a thing or two about keeping yer balance.”

Harry nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I bet you do. I’m Harry, Harry Potter. Professor McGonagall sent me out to be your escort. That is, as long as you are Mr. McKinnon?”

“ Aye, that’s wit they tell me.”

When his granddaughter steps to his side after waiting for at least a narrow section of the viaduct to mend, providing her with a complete path that requires no hopping about before she dares to cross, he drops an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Karolyn tells me that ole What’s-His-Ugly-Face is no more.”

Chuckling, Harry concurs with a brisk nod. “I’m happy to report that’s true, sir but I’m afraid I really don’t have time to talk about it just now. I’ve probably got less than 2 minutes to get you inside before my escort privileges are revoked. So, if you will take my hand, we’d best be on our way. There’s a situation in the main portrait gallery, that Professor McGonagall seems to think you might be of help with.”

*****

Benji toggles the microphone on his two-way and asks hopefully, “Professor McGonagall?” When he receives no reply, he shrugs and adds, “I know you may not be able to answer yet, but Harry ran into the fat friar on his way downstairs. The ghosts are here to help. So, expect company.”

Unable to respond, the silver feline, who is crawling on her belly through an impossibly narrow opening between slabs of stone and mortar, is grateful for the information that comes a little too loudly through the handheld radio harnessed to Wordsworth’s chest a few inches behind her. When she realizes that the tail end of the message is significantly more quiet than the first part, she looks back over her shoulder and realizes that Wordsworth is a few feet away and, due to his larger size, unable to follow. She is torn, tempted to proceed without him, but common sense wins out, and mewing in resignation, she crawls backward through the blackness. Narrowly avoiding painful contact with jagged pieces of stone, with one ankle and one shoulder aching miserably, she returns to his side. Allowing him to take the lead, and locate a passage large enough for himself, they resume their search making soft cat noises that only they understand.

When Nearly Headless Nick’s head suddenly pops into view atop its ruff and he instructs, “Down and to your left the first chance you find, Professor.” The silver cat chuffs softly, and he adds, “but there are only three of them. We’re looking for the fourth.”

The bespectacled cat shoots a grim look at Wordsworth and the pair of them plod onward. A moment later, the radio squawks again and a familiar voice announces, “Professor? It’s Harry. We’re here. I’ve got Mr. McKinnon with me.”

The silver cat purrs with relief, but it’s a response that only Wordsworth hears.

Standing next to the downed pile of rubble in the portrait gallery, the redheaded Scotsman takes the two-way radio from Harry and complains genially. “And me daughter thought I was more than a bit touched in the head for wantin’ to drive half the night to get here.” When he gets no reply, McKinnon looks at Harry with the facial equivalent of a shrug and speaks into the radio again. “Quick as you can, find a place where you can talk to me, Professor. I need to know what it’s like in there.”

He speaks to his granddaughter as he surveys the structural damage. “Kara, me gear, from the truck – in case I need tae find me way in there.”

Karolyn nods dutifully and steps away, calling over her shoulder. “Back in a wink, Seanair.”

Having been moved to the safety of the corridor, the parents of the missing children are afforded the spot just beyond the doorway, out of respect, so that they might be there to catch the first glimpses of their children once they are freed.

More than one person groans aloud when Peeves, the poltergeist, glides into the room above their heads, chanting inanely, “Why is everybody here, staring at a dirty old pile of castle ceiling? You should fix it. It has certainly looked more appealing. If I were you, I would do it before those three little kiddies start squealing!”

Penelope Pierpont shutters visibly, and Madame Pomphrey scolds, “Peeves, that is not helpful!”

“It’s not unhelpful either.” Peeves giggles.

Looking at the face of Magnus Thorn’s clearly distraught sister, Harry barks, “Peeves, you bloody menace! If you don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to sic the Bloody Baron on you!”

Purely on reflex at the mention of the Bloody Baron, Peeves shoots up through the hole in the ceiling beyond the reach of any person. He looks around nervously but then swoops back down acrobatically. Sticking his tongue out, he cackles madly, “Voldy’s gone all moldy. So, now Potty thinks he’s a hottie!”

When his taunt doesn’t draw even one of the usual sniggers, Peeves looks offended. “Bunch of sourpusses.”

Both Harry and McKinnon jump slightly. Startled, when the handheld radio that the older of the two men is still holding gives a static-filled screech and the disembodied voice of McGonagall echoes angrily through the war-torn portrait hall. “Peeves, if you don’t leave those poor people alone, I will spend the rest of my days making sure that the rest of your eternity is nowhere short of purgatory, even if it means I have to come back here and haunt you myself!”

The threat appears to give Peeves a moment’s pause. “McGona-ghoul?” 

Someone in the hallway whispers loudly, “Like she’s not scary enough already?”

Harry chuckles. “Peeves, I think you better clear off.” 

The radio squawks again, and when McGonagall finds herself seized by a sudden coughing fit, the channel closes just as quickly as it opened. 

The fine creases around McKinnon’s gray eyes deepen with concern. “Judging by the sound of that cough, it’s dry and dusty under there.”

When her reply comes, it is breathy and tinged with pain. “Try wet – and somehow still dusty, not to mention, uncomfortably hot. Breathing is a chore. Everything’s damp. There’s water coming in from somewhere, but, at present, I can’t think where. There’s no lavatory directly overhead.”

“No plumbing directly above on the fourth floor? What about the fifth? From where I’m standing, it looks as though the initial collapse may have begun there with enough force and momentum to take out the fourth floor with it. Have you got blueprints for this drafty old shack?”

McGonagall nods, then, mindful of the fact that no one can see her doing it, she adds, “They are locked in a cabinet in the headmaster’s office, but the cabinet itself is invisible, even if it weren’t, I can’t show them to just anybody. I’d have to get clearance from the ministry first, and we don’t have time for all that. Have Potter find Mr. Filch, have him shut off the castle’s main water supply. Will that do?”

“That’ll do it.”

Mr. Rivers beckons from the doorway of the portrait gallery. “Excuse me for interrupting, did that ghost thing say that there are only three kids in there?”

Harry nods, then answers verbally. “That’s right, Professor McGonagall, Peeves did say three kids; not four.”

“Nick said the same thing to me a few moments ago. The ghosts know where the kids are. I sent them back to be with the kids and to let them know that I am coming. I’ve got a pretty good idea where they are - just having a hard time getting there. There are some places where I just can’t get through.”

McKinnon questions. “Tight fit?”

“Like an elephant crawling through a straw.”

McKinnon nods and mutters to himself, “Bloody tight.” Then asks, “You need some light in there?”

“No, I can see. Just slow going.”

Harry points toward the door, indicating that he is going to go in search of Filch and McKinnon waves in understanding as he trots away.

Still talking to her, McKinnon instructs “Take yer time. Dinnae rush. Better tae go slow than risk moving the wrong piece of debris and bring the whole house of cards tumbling doon around your ears.” He turns away from the door and lowers his voice to a more discreet level. “next time ye talk tae ane of those ghosts, tell them we could use an update out here. The natives are getting restless. Any news aboot their wee anes might help."

“Will do.”

“Minerva” He says barely above a whisper. “how are ye doing in there, really?”

It takes her a few seconds to answer. “I’m alright, Laird. I think I’d rather have my teeth pulled without the benefit of anesthetic - but I’m okay.”

“Alright, but ye let me ken if that changes. I sent Karolyn out to the truck for me gear. If you need me tae, I’ll crawl in there and get ye.”

“I know you will. Good to hear your voice.”

“Good tae hear yers, too. Ah've missed ye.”

There is another weighted silence before she replies quietly, “And I, you.”

“Maybe we can dae something aboot that.”

“I’d like that.”

“You gotta get yourself oot of there first, woman. And I ken well enough, you’re not coming oot without those weans.”

She breathes heavily. “I’d better get back to it.”

Sensing the shift in her focus, he says, “This may not make a lot of sense, but ye may have tae go up tae get doon.”

“It makes sense.”

“They may not be at the bottom either, Minerva. They might be trapped somewhere between. If that’s the case, getting them oot will be exponentially more dangerous.”

“Understood.”

“Check back with me in another half hour or so. You are our een and ears. We dinnae ken what’s going on in there if we dinnae hear fae ye.”

“Cross your fingers. Hopefully, I won’t still be here ½ hour from now.”

*****

Fifteen minutes later, McKinnon has pulled a pair of coveralls on over his clothing along with a high-grade nylon safety harness. Having ventured to the fifth floor to inspect what he now knows, is indeed, the point of origin for the collapse, he sweeps a high intensity torch beam over the jagged dome of debris. Squatting on his heels a safe distance away and muttering to himself with his voice dripping sarcasm, he declares, “Pure braw, Ah thought this was going tae be hard.”

In response to his whispered comment, just below the surface of debris, barely visible through the tiniest of cracks, he catches a glimpse of movement that he might of missed all together if it hadn’t suddenly ceased in response to his voice. Panning his torch beam a second time; he catches the glow of animal eye-shine and inches a tiny bit closer to the site of collapse. “Minerva?” He questions in uncertainty. He can just make out the head of a cat.

Without so much as a mew of recognition the cat’s face disappears and is replaced by another. It takes a moment for him to be certain, and then he smiles. Although she’s dirtier than he’s ever seen her, this cat, he recognizes.

“Well, long time no see, lady.”

She squints in the beam of the torch and he moves it aside, understanding that it is far more light than she needs, and that suddenly finding herself in it’s glare is likely causing her pain.

“This is a bit of a mess.”

The silver cat squeezes her eyelids together into little more than slits.

“Well, ye made yer way to the top. Want to come out and sit a spell?”

He receives no response, verbal or otherwise.

“What’s the matter? Afear’d if ye come oot, ye won’t go back in?

Again, her eyelids narrow into slits.

“Ye come out. Ah’ll go in. When he receives no response for the second time, he shakes his head. “And, me da called me Stone. You are twice as stubborn and three times as mule-headed, ye ken??”

The silver cat huffs softly.

“Fine, have it yer way, Professor. You came up ane side. Are ye goin’ doon the other?”

The cat tips her head from one side to the other, nearly touching both shoulders, but before McKinnon can ask for any sort of clarification a very loud disruption is heard from two floors below courtesy of the massive hole.

One person says, “What the…” Another exclaims, “Hey kid!” and Penelope Pierpont demands, “Magnus Josiah Thorne!”

Downstairs, on the third floor, young Magnus cycles through curiosity, confusion, and wide-eyed alarm in rapid fire succession. “Uh, what?” He swallows a mouthful of the thick chicken and ham sandwich he is holding. “Why is half the school standing here in the hallway? Hey Pen… We talked about this. Didn’t we? I don’t go around calling you Penelope Jane. Can’t you just call me MJ? Is that really so hard?”

McKinnon whispers jovially to the cat. “Uh oh! Ah’d say ane of them has been found.”

“Boy! Get over here!” Stepping toward him, Penelope yanks her brother into a crushing hug that he finds awkwardly embarrassing.

“Ugh, Pen! Gross, get off! Why are you hugging me when you look like you want to kill me? What’d I do?”

“Because half the bloody school is looking for you! I thought you were trapped in that big giant pile of…” She points erratically before wiping away tears of both frustration and relief.

Magnus peers into the portrait gallery at the towering jumble of broken and collapsed ceiling; his eyes going wide in amazement, “Whoa! What happened in there?”

“Never mind that! What the devil are you doing here?” 

Magnus shrugs. “Hardly nobody’s moving around the school, Pen. I came up here looking for everybody. This place is never this close to empty. It’s always full of people.”

“Magnus, I’m not asking what you’re doing here on the third floor. I am asking what are you doing here at all? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for you? You were supposed to leave the school night before last. They sent me an owl and told me that I needed to come pick you up, because the school was under attack. Only I got to Hogsmeade, and you were nowhere to be found!”

Magnus squints; looking guilty. “I figured I’d see you when you got here.”

“Magnus, I could kill you! Do you have any idea how scared I’ve been! What the devil have you been doing? Where have you been? “

“I’ve been walking around the school looking for the lot I came back with. I can’t find them. I only went down to the kitchens to get a sandwich. I needed to eat.”

Taking hold of his shoulders, she turns him around to face the pile of destruction. “The ‘lot you came back with’ are trapped under that mess, young man!”

“Oh boy!” He shakes his head. “That’s no good!”

“You’re damn right that’s no good!”

“Are they hurt?” He looks genuinely worried for the first time. “They’re not dead, are they?”

“The ghosts say no. Professor McGonagall went in there to get them out. You best hope she can manage it before that whole mess collapses!”

Now, less worried, Magnus sighs with relief, “Oh good! Everything will be fine.”

“I hope you’re right. We all do.”

“I am. Nobody messes with Professor McGonagall. Did you know she can turn into a cat? Plus, the other night, she dueled Professor Snape down in the Great Hall in front of everybody. Kids are saying that he used to be a death eater, and she handed him his own arse, and then she tossed him out the bloody window.”

“Magnus!” His sister chastises.

Magnus shrugs undaunted. “Well, she did. Pen, you should have been here. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“I’m still not clear on why the four of you came back here after you were escorted out of the castle - specifically for your own safety. You had better start explaining that!”

Magnus looks confused again. “Explain what? I came back to fight death eaters. After what happened to our mum, and my dad, why do I need to explain? My mates came with me. You know, for backup. I didn’t mean for them to get trapped in there though. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m sorry for that.”

“You, you, you…” She stammers ineffectually, seizing on the first thing she heard. “Came back to fight …”

“Death eaters.” Magnus nods. “I got one, too.”

“Are you out of your…. Hang on! What do you mean you got one?”

“I got one.” Magnus repeats, not comprehending why his sister suddenly doesn’t seem to understand plain english. When she looks near to meltdown, he starts explaining rapid-fire style. “See, there’s this weird cool girl. Her name is Luna. She’s in year seven, and she’s in Dumbledore’s Army. Harry Potter taught her to do a bunch of defensive stuff. She’s a bit odd. But she’s nice. Anyway, right after term started, these daft clowns from Slytherin were hassling me. They put frog soap in my bath and stole a couple of the packages you sent with biscuits and things from home. One day, they were trying to put my head in the toilet. Luna made them stop. She stunned them so I could get away. She told them that if they ever messed with me again, she’d turn them into blibbering humdingers. I don’t even know what those are, but after that, they didn’t mess with me so much anymore. I wanted her to teach me how to stun people, but she wouldn’t. She said I was too young for that. Instead, she taught me the jelly-legs jinx. Night before last, one of those guys almost hit her in the back with the torture curse. What a sleaze! Getting people in the back, that’s just lousy - but he missed, and before he could try again, I made him dance good – but not as good as me. He went all wobbly. He just couldn’t stop until Luna petrified him. Me and Rip - we tied him up. He’s in my locker in my dorm room. All petrified. I hope somebody gets him out of there before next year. If not, he’s gonna start to smell!"

McKinnon chuckles. “The lad’s got heart.”

The silver cat simply looks at him.

“At least ye can’t accuse him of being a ruddy coward.”

Making absolutely no attempt at comment, the cat walks out of sight.

He waits a few moments, and when she doesn’t re-appear, he returns to the third floor. 

*****

Ripley kneels and brushes damp, sweaty hair away from his sister’s dirty face. “How’re you doing, Missy?”

“Okay, I guess. My leg doesn’t hurt so much anymore. As long as I don’t try to move.”

“Then be still. They will come for us soon. I don’t know how long it’s been, but a long time for sure, I’m really hungry. I think it at least has to be tomorrow already. Dad must be looking for us by now. He was supposed to come get us in Hogsmeade. Want me to try and move the stone again.

His sister shakes her head. “Every time you try, something else moves. I don’t want something else to fall and land on my face. Besides, when the stone moves, even just a little, my leg hurts really bad.”

“Well, if we could move it out of the way, so you can stand up, it might hurt really bad at first, but maybe it’s asleep. Maybe it just needs some blood. You know, like when you sit on your own foot too long and it goes all tingley. The hurts bad until you get up and move around. You gotta walk it off.”

Misti shakes her head. “Thanks Rip, but I don’t think it’s a walk-it-off kind of hurt. I think it’s broken.”

Having been nearly asleep in one corner – as far away from the other two as she can get in the less than cozy space they occupy, Cordelia Drakes opens her eyes and sits up straight with a sympathetic whimper. “Oh, Misti don’t say that. That’s really bad.”

Ripley frowns. “If she thinks it’s broken, then she thinks it’s broken, and she can say anything she wants.”

The dark-haired girl across the space instantly tears up. “Well you don’t have to yell at me.”

The boy with a headful of sooty ash blond hair that matches his older sister’s in both shade and length, groans with mounting exasperation. “I’m not yelling.” He raises his voice. “This is yelling…” He lowers his voice to a near growl. “and don’t you dare start crying again! That doesn’t help anything.”

“Well-ll…” Her voice trembles. “I’m tired, I’m hot, I’m dirty, I’m starving, and we’ve been here forever! I want to go home! I don’t like being stuck in here, I don’t like wars, I don’t like death eaters. I d...”

Ripley cuts her off. “Well, join the club. None of that makes you special just now. In case you haven’t noticed, Delia Diva, you’re not alone in here. None of us is having a swell time.”

“That is not my name, and I’ll cry if I want to!”

“Fine, cry! Cry all you want. Just be quiet about it! I swear, you make more noise than Misti, and she’s the one laying in a puddle of water with a giant piece of stone crushing her leg.”

Cordelia wails in misery, “If we get out of here, I’m never coming back.”

Misti rolls her eyes and whispers, her voice steeped in pain, “Don’t be silly, Delia. Of course, you’re coming back. We haven’t even finished our first here yet.”

Cordelia crosses her arms over her chest. I mean it. I’m not coming back. I hate Hogwarts!”

Shocked into momentary silence, Ripley stammers and looks at his sister with incredulity.

Knowing his thoughts as surely as she knows her own, Misti argues, “That’s ridiculous! Nobody hates Hogwarts!”

Cordelia unzips her small black shoulder pack with the vibrant turquoise straps that allow it to be worn and/or carried in a variety of ways. The pack is just big enough to hold a large thermos or bottle of water, but it is currently packed so tightly with other items - all of which Ripley finds utterly useless - that the various zippers are strained to the point of nearly bursting. She fishes out her compact mirror and then uses lumos to provide enough light from the tip of her wand so that she can inspect her own reflection. “Yes, someone does hate Hogwarts. Me! And, I don’t care what you say. I’m not coming back.”

Although neither of them speaks, brother and sister exchange a look that clearly says, “Honestly!”

Misti tries again. “Delia, trust me, you’ll feel better when we get out of h…”

Hey look!” Ripley comes to his feet, suddenly pointing with excitement. “It’s Professor Binns!” 

But the ghost disappears as quickly as he arrived. 

“Wait Professor! Come back!”

Still fixated on her reflection, Cordelia sighs. “Ripley, you’re seein’ things.”

“I am not seeing things, Cordelia. I saw Professor Binns… You know, the ghost professor. The one who falls asleep in class all the time.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know who Professor Binns is. It is not my first day here – and stop calling me Cordelia. I told you, everybody here just calls me Delia.”

“Why should I? You won’t stop calling me Ripley.”

His older sister moans as she makes the mistake of moving slightly. “Stop it. It’s dumb to fight – especially over your names. Look, it’s easy. You call him Rip. And you call her Delia. How hard is that? At least neither of your names is Misti. I don’t know what Mum was think…”

Delia shrieks in fright when she sees Professor Binns make his return.

Ripley sniggers. “See, I told you I saw Professor Binns!”

“Oh, do shut up, Ripley Rivers!” She turns imploring watery eyes on the ghost. “You’ve got to get me out of here before I kill him.”

*****

Half an hour later, Harry returns with Filch and another small group of people.

Drawing looks of shock and disdain from everyone, but especially from the parents of the endangered students, Argus Filch takes one look at the vast structural damage, and grumbles loudly, “I’m not cleaning this one up! Limey little prats tear apart the castle and they think old Filch is going to clean up their mess. Just like always. But, oh no, not this time!”

As if on cue, the radio squawks again, and McGonagall says plainly, “You’ll clean up whatever I require you to, Mr. Filch, and if I ever again hear you badmouth another student at this school without due cause, you’ll find yourself in need of a new situation.”

Several of the students in the hallway snigger or whisper in appreciation.

Startled and at a loss, Filch looks around. “Headmistress?”

Harry points as he steps through the doorway, “She’s under there, Filch.”

This confuses Filch all the more. “How did she…”

Stepping into the room beside Harry, Ginny takes a wild guess and vocalizes her thoughts in a simple but effective way; her eyes widening at the sight of the collapse. “Meow!”

Holding her right hand in his left, Harry grins as he reaches out, and takes the two-way radio from McKinnon once more. “Professor, this is Harry. The water’s shut off now. I’m sorry it took so long. The release valve was rusted. It took quite a bit of coaxing to close it properly. It probably won’t make things any drier in there, but at least things won’t get even wetter than they already are.”

“Thank you, Potter. Turn the volume on the radio down and give it back to Mr. McKinnon, please. You can tell the parents, I’m with their children. They’ve been playing charades with the ghosts.”

“They can hear you, Professor. The kids, they’re alright, then?”

“They have some injuries, but all three are in far better shape than I expected to find them.”

Relief floods the tense faces of the waiting parents and Mr. Drakes drops to one knee, releasing some of his anxiety as McKinnon takes the radio back from Harry and walks out of the room, lowering the volume further still. 

On his way back to the fifth floor just to have somewhere to go, he asks quietly, “What are ye leaving oot, Minerva? I can hear it in ye voice.”

“We are in a kind of pocket between debris - I’m only guessing, but probably about 2/3 of the way up. There are maybe half a dozen slabs of stone positioned in such a way that they’re keeping the rest of it from crushing us. Misti Rivers is trapped. Apparently, she hasn’t been so the whole time. A short while ago, some debris shifted. She became pinned underneath at that point. I can get her out, but..” Mindful of the children, and trying to keep them calm, she says as quietly as possible, “I don’t know if I can do it without bringing the whole mess down on our heads. Her father’s going to have to be told. I didn’t want to do it over the radio in front of everyone else. Find the Weasleys – Molly Weasley. She’s a parent, and a sensible sturdy woman. It’ll be best coming from someone like her. You find me a way to get the other two out safely, I’ll do what I can for young Miss Rivers.”

“How is she?”

“Well, she’s conscious. Which, at this point, is both a blessing and a curse. It’s her left leg that’s trapped. She’s managing well, but I’m certain she’s terrified. She’s lucid, and I’d say fairly determined. The other two tell me that she has bad moments, but as of now she’s relatively calm. That’s likely the shock setting in. We need to get them out of here as quickly as possible, Laird. She’s also lying in a puddle of water. Her head isn’t under and her airway is clear, but something tells me that’s as good as it is bad.”

“It is. The water may be cushioning the damage tae her leg, if the puddle is deep enough, but if she stays in that position fir too long, skin damage may start to occur. If they’ve been there overnight, or longer, pinned down or otherwise, they’re all three dehydrated. But, dinnae let them drink anymore of the water than they already have. Is’nae clean. I’ve got tae figure oot exactly where you are; or at least a very close approximation of yer location. I’m also going tae need a crew, and some heavy equipment. Only, Ah’m nae sure any cherry picker’s going tae reach all the way tae the fifth floor, and it’s nae coming up this staircase either.”

“No cranes, Laird. No crew of burly construction men either.”

McKinnon scratches his head. “Minerva, I cannae dae this by myself. I’ve gotta have some lads. And some big strong ones at that. Some of these slabs probably weigh in excess of 300 pounds.”

McGonagall coughs badly. “Well, you’re not going to get them. Even if the minister is still somewhere downstairs, - someone needs to find out for sure. If he is still here, he needs to be told. I need to talk to him - but either way, he can’t approve that kind of operation quickly. There are channels he must go through. We don’t have that kind of time. Take the radio back downstairs. I need to talk to some people.”

Only halfway to his destination, he nods his head and does an about face without complaint. “Yes ma’am.” Just to keep her spirits up, he asks, “You’re sure? No lads, no cranes?”.

Aware of what he’s trying to do, and appreciating the effort, she nonetheless answers dryly. “I’m sure.”

“I have to tell you, Madame Professor, we dinnae need any more challenges.”

“Laird, stop flirting and get to work.”

He laughs. “Ah hear ye. Ah just dinnae ken exactly how you’d like me tae dae that without a crew.”

“Good god, man! Stop whining. I’m going to get you a crew. It’ll just be one like you’ve never worked with in all your life.”

“Hey… Hold up! You got in, can’t they come out the same way?”

“No, Laird, they cannot!”

“OK, tell me fir wye.”

“You do understand, I have two 11-year-olds and a 12-year-old in here with me. Even if Miss Rivers wasn’t pinned down, each of them is significantly larger than a cat. And, believe me when I tell you there were some places that were roomier than others, but it was pretty much a tight fit all the way in.”

He shrugs. “So, can ye turn them into mice or something.”

“Not an option!”

“Fir wye?”

“Even if I could do it. Wordsworth would kill them before they got out. It took me more than an hour to find them. A transformation for that length of time -they are already stressed, Laird, and not one of them is a trained animagus. I can’t just go around turning human beings who have had no training, and no preparation, into animals. It would drive them mad.”

“Okay, understood. No mice.”

“No mice!”

“Okay, third-floor. Hallway outside the room with all the ancient paintings. Where’s this unparalleled crew ye promised me, woman”

The smirk on McGonagall’s face is evident in her voice. “Turn the volume back up so they can hear me.”

After complying with her request, he says, “Yer live, Professor.”

“Who all is present out there, please?”

When everyone answers at once, and all she hears is a loud blurb of indistinguishable noise, she says, “Let’s try this a different way. Pomona?”

“I’m here, Minerva.”

“It’s your first responsibility to go and find out if the minister is still on the premises. If he is, make certain he knows what is going on. If he’s not, an owl needs to be sent. Before you do either of those things, confer with Mr. McKinnon privately but, if you will, please wait until I’m done delegating.”

When Sprout nods because she’s unfamiliar with two-way radio receivers, Curtis Benjamin coaches patiently. “You’ll have to speak your answer, Professor. McGonagall cannot see you right now. She needs to hear your voice.” 

She nods again and then adds, “Of course. Understood.”

“Good. Filius?”

“Flitwick squeaks, “At your service, Headmistress.”

“We’re going to put together a team to aid Mr. McKinnon with his job. We’ll need to include adults - and students – in possession of quick reflexes who are also particularly gifted at charms and/or healing.” She coughs dryly. “I suggest yourself, Madame Pomphrey, Molly Weasley, Mr. Lovegood. Mr. Potter, Miss. Granger, Ms. Lobosca, Mr. Thomas, and Miss Lovegood, provided of course, they are all present and you agree with that assessment.”

“I do and, if I may, I will also add Miss Katy Bell to this team.”

“Let it be so. All other students are to leave the third-floor corridor immediately. You are to be escorted out onto the castle grounds, or down to the Great Hall by Professors Vector and Trelawny. From this point forward, until otherwise notified, no student is to venture any higher inside this castle than the ground floor. This is for your own safety. The team we’ve just assembled is going to start moving some of this debris around to help free the students and myself. While I certainly hope for the best, in the event of further collapse, I want this floor and the two immediately below it evacuated. No one is to remain on the second or first floor of this building. Any student, I repeat, any student caught disregarding this directive will be expelled. Any parent, not related to our endangered students, or not expressly asked to stay behind, please leave the immediate area with your children. The ghosts are to patrol the school. Sir Nicholas will report back to me once the ghosts are certain the evacuation is complete. You have 20 minutes to get yourselves to safety, and I would like you all to do this as quickly and as calmly as possible. Begin now.”


	3. Rescue (Part I)

* * *

As McGonagall runs down her list of names, McKinnon keeps a running total in his head. When 98% of those jammed into the hallway beyond the portrait gallery are no longer present, the noise level drops considerably, and he feels the first low-level surge of event-related adrenaline. Time to get to work. Aware that, including himself, there should be no more than 19 people present, he counts heads, making certain he’s got the right number. When he comes up with 20, he counts again, just to be sure the error is not his own. 

“Who’s here that’s nae supposed tae be here?”

When all who are present, excluding a pretty redheaded girl, look around at the others, he has his answer but before he can say anything, Molly Weasley scolds, “Ginny, outside now.”

“Mum, I can help. I’m good at the kinds of things you need.”

McKinnon realizes only then that the mic on the two-way radio is still open when it buzzes unpleasantly, and he releases his hold on the transmission button. 

Shortly thereafter, McGonagall says crisply, “Miss Weasley, you are not being excluded because of any lack of ability. I’m quite confident you would be an asset to the team. However, because of the event that brought us here today, your parents have already lost one of their children. I’ll not be responsible for the injury or loss of another. If you do not wish to face expulsion from Hogwarts, you will leave the area immediately.”

Ginny looks to her mother, her face going hard and hot when Molly simply points toward the grand staircase. She looks to Harry, seeking an ally. He shrugs apologetically but shakes his head.

“Harry!” She demands stubbornly.

“Sorry, Ginny, but I agree with them. If there’s even a slight chance you could be hurt, I’d rather you were not here. Go outside. It’s nice out. Find your dad and your brothers. Have a game of quidditch.”

She stamps her foot. “Not okay, Harry.”

He nods. “Right then, you can yell at me later. Just now, I’m a bit busy.”

Ginny stomps away as Molly sighs, “You didn’t have to do that, Harry dear. I could’ve done it. She’ll be three times as bad-tempered with you.”

He shrugs. “Invite me to dinner one night after things settle down a bit, we’ll call it even.”

Well, that’s no price at all. You’re welcome at our table every night.”

McKinnon clears his throat. “We should get started if we dinnae still want to be here come dinnertime tonight. First, I’ll be needin a moment with Molly Weasley, Madame Pomphrey and Professor… He points in uncertainty, and the plump little witch in question kindly supplies, “Sprout, Pomona Sprout.”

Waving them over the threshold into the portrait gallery, like an usher, he says, “Right this way, ladies.” On afterthought, he pokes his head back out into the corridor. “If ye aw will stay here, we wilnae be but a moment.”

Inside the gallery, he quickly and quietly offers a full disclosure of the situation, the problems they face, along with what he will need from each of them. When they each have their assigned tasks clearly in mind, he steps back out into the corridor, and waves the others in as the three women exit, branching off in separate directions. While Sprout is off to find Minister Shacklebolt, Madame Pomphrey quickly pulls Chiara Lobosca away from the others and heads for the hospital wing to gather supplies. Molly approaches Clayton Rivers and, as gently as possible, separates him from the group. “Come with me, Mudd. I need a word in private.”

*****

Beneath the collapsed mountain of stone, using Lumos Maxima in conjunction with the Ferula charm, McGonagall magically applies bandages to the minor lacerations and abrasions visible on the arms and faces of her charges. As she works, she fills in her own captive audience. “First, I’ve got to let Mr. McKinnon and the others know precisely where we are in this heap. Then, I’m going to find a way to get the two of you…” She points at the faces of Cordelia and Ripley and can’t help but notice the difference in the amount of dirt present there. “out of here safely and returned to your families. After that, Miss Rivers will have my full attention and we will find a way to get you out from under there.”

Ripley shakes his head. “Professor, I’m not leaving my sister. I can’t.”

“You can, and you will, Mr. Rivers. By force if necessary. I’m asking you not to make me do that. I give you my word, everything that can be done for your sister will be done. I will not leave here without her.”

”But…”

Weakly, but fiercely, Misti declares, “You’re going Rip. I’ll be out in a little while. If I’m not, I’ll tell Mum how brave you were fighting those death eaters, and how good you did at school this year.”

Again, Ripley shakes his head. “Don’t say that Missy. You can’t think like that.”

“I have to. Can’t help it, Rip. Somebody has to stay here and look after Dad. You know what he’s like. He’s hopeless without Mum. See if you can find him a girlfriend.”

Ripley cringes. “Gee, thanks Missy. Ask for the impossible, why don’t you?”

She shrugs and immediately wishes she’d foregone the simple movement. Hoarse with pain, she says, “That should keep you busy for a few years.”

“Try decades.”

“Find him a nice witch - or not a witch. Another muggle is okay. Just not Widow Humphries from across the street. I know she thinks she likes Dad. But she doesn’t, not really. He’s just available. She will steamroll him.”

“I don’t like her anyway.” Ripley declares in honesty. “She’s creepy the way she’s always hanging around. She smiles funny, and she laughs too much at all Dad’s stupid jokes. Besides, she makes me sneeze – too much perfume.”

Cordelia looks to McGonagall and interrupts. “Aren’t we in trouble? How come you’re not scolding us, or taking house points, or something? Are we going to be in detention until we graduate?”

“No, Miss Drakes you will not be in detention until you graduate. I cannot think of a single punishment that would be worse than spending what must be nearly 36 hours trapped here. Disobedient as the four of you were, no one deserves this. The three of you are lucky to be alive. And you may need some luck yet.”

Ripley’s eyes widen with astonishment. “Oh man, 36 hours! No wonder I’m starving!” Lucky MJ wasn’t here with us. He wouldn’t make it that long, I don’t think.”

“Magnus would have been better company.” Cordelia says snidely.

“Lucky indeed.” McGonagall sniffs.” I hope the four of you remember that the next time you decide to disobey school rules.”

“Is MJ alright, Professor? The death eaters didn’t get him, did they?”

“No. Mr. Thorne has also been found, unharmed. He was wandering around looking for the three of you.”

“Told you he was looking for us, didn’t I?”

“Shut it, Cordelia.”

The girl turns wounded eyes toward the professor. “You see. He’s been yelling at me this whole time.”

McGonagall inhales with forced patience. “I don’t hear anyone yelling. You might try being a little less overbearing, seeing as how the company you did have, kept you from being all alone in here. What have you got in this bag?”

Ripley volunteers, “Nothing useful, Professor. I already looked, and she threw a fit about that, too. There’s nothing in there but a bunch of makeup.”

“Mr. Rivers, when I ask Miss Drakes a question, it is because I expect her to answer. And I want all of you to stop clyping on each other. Nobody likes a snitch.”

They all go silent.

“That’s better. Now, surely you must have something other than cosmetics in this hefty sack, Miss Drakes. It’s nearly bursting.”

Cordelia shrugs as McGonagall struggles to open one of the jam-packed zippered compartments. It takes her a long frustrating moment to empty the bag, and then she stares in astonishment at the pile of assorted bottles, tubes, brushes, and jars for another minute before she declares. “Good heavens, child. Cosmetics are meant to accentuate or enhance beauty that is already present. They are not meant to transform one’s entire face, or to be worn like war paint. You are entirely too young to need all of this. I, myself, am too young to need all of this!”

A strangled sound coming from Misti causes McGonagall to glance her way with tightly controlled alarm, only to realize that the girl is trying to stifle her own laughter.

“I’m sorry Professor. I don’t mean to be rude, but that was rather funny. I didn’t think you were too young for anything.”

“Neither did I, Miss Rivers, but this – Well, this is just.” She turns to Cordelia. “You have a very pleasing face, Miss Drakes. Do yourself a favor and stop hiding it with all this unnecessary camouflage.”

Stunned, Cordelia’s face glows with a look that is equal parts doubt and delight. Too pleased to complain, she says nothing when McGonagall turns her bag over and opens the zipper in the center of the shoulder strap, making two out of one.

McGonagall shortens the shoulder straps, nearly to their smallest setting before magically fashioning a new strap that buckles horizontally outside the center of the largest compartment. Using Reducio silently, she reduces the bag in size. Where it was once big enough to carry a large drinking flask, now, when compared side by side, it appears scarcely larger than the two-way radio that allows her to communicate with those in the room beyond their current confinement.

“Professor, what are you doing to my bag?” Cordelia inquires, her confusion evident in every word.

“I’m securing your means for escape from this wretched pile of detritus.”

“I don’t see how my makeup bag is going to help with that.”

Without comment, McGonagall points her wand at the bag again and works a bit more nonverbal magic before pulling the largest compartment open wide and lowering the now tiny bag to the pile of stones underfoot. Nodding at the bag encouragingly, she declares, “You first, Mr. Rivers. In you go.”

Grinning curiously, Ripley approaches the bag. Turning to Cordelia as he cautiously attempts to insert the toe of one shoe, he announces, “If I tear this thing apart, just remember, she told me to.” He pushes his foot in slightly, and then reflexively jerks himself free when his left leg disappears entirely inside the bag and he still can’t feel the bottom. “Hey! What the -”

“It’s alright.” McGonagall assures. “There will be a short drop, but I promise you’ll find the bottom before you fall far enough to be injured. When you do touchdown, move to one side to make room for Miss Drakes.”

Ripley scowls until his sister says quietly, “It’s okay Rip. It’s just an undetectable extension charm. She made the outside of the bag smaller, so her cat can carry it on his back, but on the inside, there’s enough room for you and Delia so you can get out of here.”

His eyes widen dramatically. “Seriously? We’re going out by cat?”

McGonagall offers assuredly. “I’ll guide him out. You needn’t worry, Mr. Rivers.”

“Worry? I’m not worried.” He looks at his sister. “Well, not about myself. This is too bloody weird to be anything but cool.” Despite his enthusiasm, he eyes McGonagall somberly. “You won’t leave her?”

“My word of honor.” McGonagall swears.

“Missy?”

“Just go!” His sister whispers. “Get out of here already… And don’t eat my entire stash of cauldron cakes before I get there.”

Nodding, he puts the same foot back inside the bag. The same flicker of indecision crosses his face and then he relinquishes control and appears to be swallowed whole by the small nylon pouch. A long moment later, sounding as if his voice is coming from the bottom of an enormous canyon, he declares, “Hey Delia, get a move on. Time to blow this hellhole!”

Cordelia shakes her head. “I am not getting in that bag.”

Misti laughs, coughs badly, and then, groans in abject misery. “Fine, stay here by yourself. Professor McGonagall and I are leaving. Maybe, if you learned enough magic this year, you’ll be able to turn the place into a lovely summer cottage.

Cordelia looks terrified at the prospect of being left behind, but still resolutely shakes her head.

Misti sighs. “Professor, I think you’re going to have to help her out.”

Before Cordelia has time to object, she floats, momentarily aloft before being jettisoned into the small pack, that from the outside, doesn’t look big enough for one of her hands. Landing on her backside at Ripley’s feet, she scurries to her own and struggles to remain upright inside the nylon fabric. The zipper runs, pulled along its track, and closes all but the last bit, leaving a ½ inch gap open, and Cordelia lights the tip of her wand as she scowls repugnantly and whispers, “I can’t believe she did that!”

Ripley shrugs and whispers back, “I don’t know why not. Didn’t you hear her when she said that she would make me leave by force, if necessary?”

“Yes, but that’s you.”

“There you go again, thinking you’re special.”

“Look, whatever. Just don’t talk to me until we get out of here.”

“Fine by me.” Ripley tries to sit down on the floor of the bag, but before he can manage it, the bag is turned sideways and jostled about.”

“Ugh, it’s weird being small enough to fit in here.”

“You’re not small enough to fit in here. The inside of the bag was made big enough to fit around us.”

When Ripley rolls into her, Cordelia slaps him away. “Get off of me at once, Ripley Rivers!”

“Sorry!” He grouses, “Believe me, it wasn’t by choice. It’s kind of hard to hold still when you’re being moved about like this.”

“Why are you whispering?”

Realizing it for the first time, Ripley shrugs. “Don’t know. You’ve started it.”

“Well, this is weird! What the devil is she doing to us, anyway?”

“She isn’t doing anything to us - except trying to get us out of here alive.”

Cordelia squeals as the pack is jostled about again. “Well, I don’t like it!”

Ripley sighs. “Look Delia, just try to relax, okay. Don’t move if you can help it. She’s just putting the bag on the cat. Once that’s done, we won’t be moving around quite so much. The cat will get us out. He knows the way.”

“How do you know that?”

“He got in, didn’t he?”

“Well, what if he forgets how to get out?”

“He got in less than half an hour ago. He’d have to be pretty stupid to forget the way out that fast, wouldn’t he? I don’t think Professor McGonagall would have a stupid cat.”

“Whatever, you don’t know.”

“You know what, Cordelia? I think I liked it better when you weren’t talking to me.”

*****

After slipping her cat’s front feet through the miniaturized shoulder straps of the bag and fastening the newly fashioned chest strap around his middle, McGonagall sets Wordsworth on his feet and says to him, “You know the way.” She points her wand in the direction he needs to travel and declares fervently, “Expecto Patronum!” 

The ghostly image of a silver feline bursts forth from the tip of her wand and races up the narrow passage through which they arrived, acting as a guide and, if necessary, as a protector for her own whiskered companion and the students he now carries. Talking to Wordsworth again, she orders, “Fast as you can, back to the top.” She then picks up the radio at her feet and depresses the transmission button. “Laird?”

“I’m here, Minerva.”

“Go back up to the fifth floor - top of the heap. Where we talked earlier. Wordsworth is coming out. He’s a big fellow. You’ll need to widen the gap before he gets there. Otherwise, he’ll start looking for another exit. You probably have about 25 minutes. Give or take ten.”

“We’re on our way.” He clips the radio to his belt. “Okay, troop. You heard the lady. Up we go.”

*****

  
Taking the stairs two at a time, he talks as he goes, looking over his shoulder only once or twice to make sure that his audience is alert and following along. “Okay, team, ears open and listen close because I wilnae have time tae repeat this later. The work we’re about tae dae is slow-moving, methodical, and tedious. In order tae go fast, you’ll have to go slow. We move only as a team. No one acts independently. We move only the debris that can be moved without disturbing other bits. Whatever else is on your mind right now, whatever pain or injury you’ve suffered in the last few days, as of this moment, it is immaterial. Put it in a box and save it fir later. Your complete focus is mandatory. You dinnae make a single move that you’re not 100% sure of. Work together. Work quietly. If I say stop. Ye stop. If I tell ye tae move, ye move. If ye see me run, make bloody well sure ye keep up. If ye get lazy or careless, young Misti and Professor McGonagall will likely be crushed to death. If ye lose yer focus, they die. If ye get impatient, they die. If ye move too fast, or too slowly, they die. Does anybody here nae understand that?”

Harry answers dryly, “I think everybody’s up to speed, Mr. McKinnon.”

“Dinnae call me Mister. It makes me look around for me grandda. I work best on familiar terms – and one other thing. I’ve got a grand girl who’s a whiz with a wand. There’s nothing she can’t dae. Some of ye may ken her. Maybe you even went tae class with her. But me, I’m as muggle as they come. Can’t dae a bloody thing with a wand. So, I won’t tell you how tae work yer magic. I dinnae care what spells you use, long as you get the job done - just dinnae blow anything up unless I tell ye to - but understand this, I am the man in charge. If a’body here has a problem taking orders from non-magic folk, they should leave now.”

As they step into the room on the fifth floor, he turns to face them. When nobody leaves, he nods appreciatively. “Right then. I heard Professor McGonagall call out yer names. If ye aw would, dae me a wee favor. Step forward one at a time and tell me again, so I can put a name with a face.”

When they’ve each taken their turn, Luna asks, “If not Mr. McKinnon, then what should we call you, sir?”

“Just plain McKinnon will dae. Me friends call me Stone. If you all take a mind tae do likewise, it wilnae bother me one bit. 

Why Stone?”

“That’s me middle name.”

“Seriously?” Katy Bell inquires.

He nods. “That’s what it says on me birth certificate.”

“That’s an intriguing choice.” Luna says airily

“Me Grandda was rather fond of the drink, at least until he found oot me da was due to arrive. I guess he figured that was reason enough tae sober up. It was just a pet name, but he called me da, Rock. Anytime anybody ever had the temerity to ask why, he’d always tell ‘em, ‘because the lad is my rock.’ Da grew up, met me ma, fell in love. Along came me, and Ma absolutely insisted, ‘We’ll give him the middle name Stone because we can’t call him Chip – you know, as in chip off the old block or rock, or what have you. She said with a name like Chip, I’d be a target for the schoolyard bullies, and that, she just wouldn’t have.” He chuckles. “Of course, then the woman - God rest her - she went and gave me the first name Laird, like that wouldn’t paint an equally grand target on me back for the same schoolyard bullies.”

Hermione squints in uncertainty. “What’s so wrong with Laird? It sounds like a fine name to me.”

McKinnon chuckles softly. “Laird is the Scottish word for lord. So, naturally, whenever ah’m first introduced to anyone, Ah’m sure Ah come off sounding a bit full of me self. Most of the men in me family are sailors and fishermen by trade. There might even be a few pirates in the old bloodline, but not a landowner in the lot. So, some of the family thought me ma was a bit too proud, givin’ me the name of Laird. Most people feel more comfortable with Stone. Ma was the only person tae ever call me by me Christian name, at least until I met your esteemed headmistress a number of years ago. She seems to prefer it. Even me wife didn’t call me Laird.”

Katy Bell smirks. “No offense, sir but if I had a husband. I wouldn’t call him Laird either. I’d be too afraid it might go to his head.”

“None taken. Precisely why me Riona refused tae dae so. And now, on tae more important matters.” He walks toward the apex of the collapse. “A short while ago, I sat up here and had a brief conversation with Professor McGonagall courtesy of this very small gap. Our first task, she tells me, is tae widen the gap, so that Wordsworth…” He stresses the name as if asking a question. “can come through."

“That’s Professor McGonagall’s cat.” Harry and Hermione say in unison. They each look at the narrow slit between pieces of stone and Hermione follows up with, “Yeah, that won’t do. He’s going to need at least - what Harry – four or maybe six more inches around?”

McKinnon’s blue eyes twinkle as he scratches his beard. “Noo, that really shouldn’t surprise me, should it? Ah thought Ah saw twa cats.”

Harry nods. “I’d give him at least six inches in diameter. He’s a behemoth.”

“Can anyone tell me why she took the cat in with her? Minerva McGonagall doesn’t dae a thing without a good reason.”

Molly Weasley offers. “Another student supplied her with the twin to the radio you’re using to talk with her. She had the cat with her when she arrived. I’m not sure what her original intent was. The radio was an afterthought. When the cat, Wordsworth, went in with McGonagall, he was carrying her radio. she didn’t want to risk carrying it herself for fear of transfiguring it improperly and making it useless.”

“If Wordsworth went in with her, basically as her pack mule, and he’s coming out without her, there has tae be a reason why.” He reaches for the radio at his hip. “Minerva?”

After a moment of silence, she answers, “Just a minute, Laird. I’m a wee bit busy just now.”

He nods tersely and returns the radio to his belt.

“Well, we may as well get started. The sooner we dae, the sooner everyone gets tae go home. Everyone stand back a safe distance away from the hole. The floor is weakened, and I dinnae have enough safety harnesses tae go round. Me normal crew travels with their own. I’m going tae anchor and move closer. I will move small debris with me hands. If something clear for removal is tae heavy or is difficult tae reach, Ah will call on you all tae provide magical assistance. It might be braw fir the lot of you tae spread out in a circle around the apex. Pick your spot and stay there. Dinnae go movin’ aboot unnecessarily. First, we’ll widen the cat’s window here, and then, once he’s with us, we’ll began working our way doon tae the professor and the wee yins.”

Harry grins. We don’t need safety harnesses, Stone. Hermione can cast Wingardium Leviosa better than any of the rest of us combined. As long as she’s the one holding the wand, I’ll levitate right down the middle of that hole if you need me to.”

Hermione looks less confident in her ability than her friend. “I don’t know about that, Harry. I’ve never levitated a person before. I think you’d be safer on your broom.”

He points at her enthusiastically. “Now, that’s brilliant thinking! If someone needs to go down the hole between floors…”

McKinnon looks doubtful.

Hermione assures, “It’ll be fine. Harry is the best flyer in the school. Just ask McGonagall. She’ll tell you. She bought him his first broom after he came to Hogwarts. Although, I don’t know if she’ll admit it, even now that he’s done. She didn’t sign the gift card that came with it. Probably wanted to avoid appearing biased or showing favoritism to him or the Gryffindor quidditch team.”

Flitwick interrupts, “However it’s done, no one’s taking another step until we all have proper safety gear. Mr. McKinnon, if you will step aside for a moment and remove yours temporarily, I can replicate it all – make enough for the whole team.”

McKinnon nods. “Aye, if that’s possible, they aw need proper buits, harnesses, and cover for their heids, een, hands, and ears.”

When Flitwick squints in uncertainty, McKinnon steps to the little man’s side and removes his safety glasses, his hard hat, his gloves, and his ear plugs. It takes a moment, but in relatively quick succession, he steps out of his harness, his boots, and then on afterthought, his coveralls as well. “Ye can make more – to fit them?” He gestures to his impromptu crew.

“Certainly. I should’ve thought of it before we came up here.”

“You thought of it. That’s wit matters. AhI’m guessing you’ve never been in this situation a’fore. Nae have I. Dae the hats first. So, we can get them tae the professor and the wee anes.”

Flitwick complies, and as soon as there are two hardhats available, McKinnon moves to retrieve his own.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting a moment longer.” Flitwick says. It’s not wise to make a replica of a replica. One replication probably wouldn’t do much harm, but it does degrade the quality of the item being conjured.”

“Nae something ye’ll be wantin’ with safety gear.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

With the flick of his wrist the Charms teacher creates hardhats enough for everyone and, following that if up with a bouncy little flourish, he replicates the other safety items enough times over to accommodate the group. He relegates each type of item to its own tidy little stack on the floor against one wall of the large room. “Everybody take only one of each. There isn’t a person in this room, other than Mr. McKinnon who should not be well versed in the use of engorgement and reduction charms. If the items you take don’t fit you, make them fit properly. If you’re not certain about proper fit, particularly with the hard hat and the harness, I’m sure Mr. McKinnon can be of assistance. Equip yourselves quickly, and let’s - as they say - get this party started. Headmistress McGonagall and your classmates do not need to wait any longer than they absolutely must.”

While everyone is busy collecting their own gear, Flitwick places a hat squarely atop his head and when it slips down over his eyes, he immediately corrects the issue with the tap of his wand, then he picks up four more. “Tell Professor McGonagall that I’m standing here beside you and I’ve got two hardhats in each hand.”

Once again, McKinnon reaches for the radio at his hip. “Minerva, the snappy dresser oot here, says tae tell ye that he’s standing at me left, and he’s got a couple of hardhats in each hand.”

The hats clasped in the dwarf’s left hand shimmer briefly as though bathed in sunlight and then disappear from sight. A moment later, McGonagall is heard through the radio. “Thank you, Professor Flitwick. Miss Rivers says she’s already got a leg in bad shape. She’s grateful to know her head has some cover. I can’t deliver the other two hats. Mr. Ripley and Miss Drakes are already on their way out.”

McKinnon smooths his mustache appreciatively. “I can’t wait tae see how ye managed that! Thank you fir the good news. Their parents are all smiles. Stay with us a bit longer on the radio. We’ve got a couple of bundles of other protective gear fir the twa of ye an’aw.”

McGonagall relays her understanding succinctly. “Standing by.”

From her new vantage point, Luna takes in the sheer depth of the task before them as she dons her own protective gear. “We’re just going to dig them out? One piece at a time?”

McKinnon nods. “That’s the name of the game, Miss Lovegood - ane piece at a time- as slowly as need be, and as quickly as possible. Ah’m going tae see if I can snake some cameras in. If we can get an idea of their exact location, we may have a better idea of where tae start digging. I hope you all had a good breakfast this morning. This might be a long day people.”

*****

It isn’t long before they develop a rhythm. Each of them acting only when called upon, and with painstaking precision. They move, they lift, and they lower various pieces of stone and debris. If a section of stone is too large for one person to move, they shrink it in size. Occasionally, to keep the whole structure as stable as possible, they engorge some pieces, making them larger. It all makes for very slow work, and after nearly 40 minutes, Harry and a few of the others are discouraged to see how little progress they’ve made, but when McKinnon detects a faint scratching sound and calls for an all-quiet, all movement and noise stop immediately.

Listening closely, McKinnon moves four steps to his left and begins digging a new hole.

“Where are ye fella, Ah hear ye. Come on up.”

When the male cat is heard yowling in frustration beneath the surface, Hermione joins McKinnon at the edge of the hole. stepping carefully to his side before kneeling, she quietly requests, “Harry, you spot me, okay. I’ve never worn one of these harnesses before. I don’t know exactly how much trust to put in the thing. Don’t let me fall.”

Without leaving his designated spot, Harry points his wand with the phoenix tail feather at its core at a spot between her shoulder blades and stands ready. “I’m here, Hermione. I’ve got you.”

Confident in his ability, she uses her own wand to lift the heaviest pieces of stone and mortar from the area and move them to the far side of the room against a wall where they are no longer a threat to anyone, before stowing her wand up the sleeve of her shirt and using her gloved hands to gently set aside the smaller, more manageable, refuse. As she works, Hermione croons. “We’re coming Wordsworth, hang on. Just a little bit longer. That’s it. There you are. I see you, big guy.”

Before the opening is large enough for Wordsworth to press his head through, McGonagall’s patronus erupts from the gap, startling McKinnon and throwing him momentarily off balance as the ethereal silver cat leaps into the room.

Hermione catches him by the collar of his shirt just in time to keep him from toppling headfirst down the hole; nearly strangling him in the process.

Sitting back on his heels and breathing deeply, he says gruffly, “Next time, you let me fall, lass. This harness will catch me and keep me fae most harm, but I’m big enough to take you along for the ride. Let’s not test the worthiness of your harness unless we absolutely must.” Then he turns, glaring at the silver specter of a cat. “Hell, and damnation, Minerva! What are ye trying tae dae, woman? Give me a bloody heart attack? Not all of us have nine lives, ye ken!”

Luna can’t help giggling as she explains, “That isn’t her, McKinnon. It’s just her patronus.”

“Oh. Well it bloody looks like her!”

Dean Thomas cocks his head to one side. You know, you’re right. It does look like her. Almost exactly, except for the whole ghostly vapor part. That’s uncanny. How come I’m never noticed that before now?”

Katy Bell shrugs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen McGonagall cast a patronus before. I mean, I assumed she could, but this is the first I’ve seen it. Does anybody else’s patronus look like its - I don’t know what to call it. Owner? Person?”

Harry speaks up. “Not every witch or wizard who can cast a corporeal patronus is an animagus, and even if they are, I bet it’s possible to have a different patronus than your animal form. Although, it sort of makes sense that the two would be similar. Think about it. Animagi do not choose their animal form. It’s kind of like a spirit animal, and if the corporeal patronus is an animal that the caster, in some way, identifies with…”

“Right.” Hermione agrees. “In most cases, the two would be very similar, if not identical.”

McKinnon finds himself feeling like the odd man out. “Whit exactly is a patronus.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. “You don’t know? Never mind, I’m sorry. That was a stupid question. You wouldn’t have asked otherwise. A patronus is a magical shield that protects the one who casts it. Its primary use is to protect a witch or wizard from the dementor’s kiss.”

“Those awful things that work as guards at the wizard prison? Karolyn told me about them.”

“Yes sir.” Hermione and McKinnon resume their work, trying to free Wordsworth as she talks. “They feed on a person’s worst pain and suffering. They make them relive their most heartbreaking memories. When the dementors perform their kiss, they suck out a person’s soul. A patronus is a way to drive them away. You have to think of your happiest moments to be able to produce one, and the dementors can’t penetrate a shield generated from that. It’s really powerful magic, but sometimes a patronus can be used to protect others besides just the one who casts it. I’ve also seen them used as messengers in a pinch. I don’t think a patronus can protect people or animals from falling objects, so it’s not likely she cast hers to protect Wordsworth. She probably meant it to be his guide in case he got lost or confused.”

With the hole finally wide enough, McKinnon reaches in with his grifter and grabs the cat by the scruff of his neck, hauling him out before he has time to flee from the unfamiliar metal device.

I see Harry was’nae kidding aboot. You are a grand beast, aren’t you?” McKinnon brings the dirty cat in close to his chest and rubs his head with his good hand. I bet ye need some water. Are ye thirsty? “What is this thing yer wearing, eh? What has your mistress sent us?”

Rising to his full height, McKinnon untethers his harness from its anchor around a wide marble column left ironically undamaged in the midst of chaos, and steps carefully away from the site of collapse before he removes the small pack from the cat’s broad back and sets the animal gingerly on his feet. He’s vaguely aware of Hermione and Mrs. Weasley talking soothingly to the feline as he unzips the largest of the bag’s compartments. Startled again, he nearly drops the bag when Ripley Rivers’ head and shoulders suddenly emerge.

Grinning broadly, the boy says, “Sorry about that, sir. Didn’t mean to give you a fright. If you don’t mind, set the pack down on the floor please.”

Completely flummoxed, McKinnon does so, and the boy climbs out of the pack amid thunderous cheers of pure joy and clapping.

“Rip!”

Instantly pulled into his father’s arms, the boy laughs nervously and returns the intense hug. “Hi Dad.”

“Are you alright, son? Are you hurt?”

“Not too badly, Misti pushed me out from under a falling chuck of stone. That’s how she got trapped. I’m sorry, Dad.”

“None of that. Not now. Let’s just move out of the way, and let these people do their work. They got you out.”

Professor McGonagall is still with Misti. She’s going to dig her out from under the stones.” Ripley catches sight of the panic-stricken faces of the two remaining hopeful parents. “It’s OK Mr. and Mrs. Drakes.” Turning back to the pack on the floor, he calls, “Hey Delia, it’s okay, you can come out now. Your parents are here waiting for you.”

When she doesn’t emerge, Ripley makes the huge effort necessary to keep from rolling his eyes. “Hang on, Dad. She’s just a little bit scared.” Stepping away from his father, he walks back to the small nylon pack on the floor and kneels.

Reaching in, his arm disappears up to his shoulder. “Cordelia, come on out. You’re being silly.”

Her parents’ faces instantly brighten when she can be heard bellowing, “Ow! That’s my hair, don’t pull!”

Placing one eye to the small opening, Ripley laughs, “Well then, get yourself out here, girl. Come on. I’m starved and, as soon as Missy is out, I want to go and find Magnus.”

Cordelia finally emerges, grumbling under her breath as she smooths her dark curls back into place, “Boys! That’s all you ever think about, food and your mates!”

Mr. and Mrs. Drakes instantly swarm their daughter and rush her from the room sandwiched between the two of them, without bothering to look back.

McKinnon looks around to find radiant smiles on the faces of most people, including Molly Weasley. “Molly, the lad doesn’t look as if he requires extensive medical care. Nonetheless, have Madame Pomphrey check him oot, and then, if ye will, please escort Mr. Rivers and his son down tae the scullery for a quick bit of scran. But, bring them back. I’m sure they’ll want to be here when Misti is extracted. While you’re at it, take Mr. Wordsworth with ye. Find him the largest dish of tuna ye can. He has, most definitely, earned it!”

When the large male cat vocalizes his own agreement, another round of laughter and cheering goes up. 

*****

Deep inside the mountainous pile of refuse, McGonagall speaks encouragement to her remaining charge. “Come now, girl. Open your eyes. Do you hear that? Do you hear that ruckus? I’m guessing that means your brother and your friend have made it to safety.”

“Good.” Misti whispers faintly. “Professor, I’m so tired, and I’m getting cold.”

McGonagall searches the pockets of her robes, not finding a handkerchief, she wipes perspiration off her own forehead with the back of her hand and fights to keep the desperation out of her voice, when she says, “I know, dear. You just keep your eyes open a little bit longer. You just hang on.”

When the girl murmurs incoherently and her eye lids flutter before closing, McGonagall rises from her knees, snatches up the radio, and turns her back.

“Laird McKinnon!” She calls out over the radio as quietly as possible.

When he answers, he’s laughing, “If I have tae go fishing every day for the rest of me life, that beast of yers is going tae have fresh caught salmon fir dinner every night for the rest of his. He’s pure braw!”

“Never mind that! You cannot go fishing yet. There’s a little girl down here who still needs your help. I am moving the stone.”

“Minerva, haud on a wee bit longer. Ah dinnae ken yet if it’s safe for ye tae dae that. You might bring the whole thing down on yer heids.”

The room is too noisy for him to hear her properly, and he takes his finger off the transmission button before he pulls in a great breath of air and roars from deep inside his chest, “Haud yer wheeshts!”

Confused, Dean looks to Harry, who is nearest him, and whispers, “What’s that mean?”

Harry shrugs, just as mystified, until he sees Mrs. Weasley holding a finger sternly to her lips.

The silence that follows is somehow twice as deafening as the noise that preceded it, until McGonagall’s voice is heard, asking, “Where is her father?”

“Molly took he and her brother down to the scullery fir a piece.

“Good. It’s probably best they don’t overhear this. I think I’m losing her, Laird. She’s barely conscious. She’s shivering uncontrollably and it’s got to be 100 degrees inside here. Whatever her injuries may be, I don’t have a hope of treating them, if I can’t see them. If I do nothing, she’ll be dead long before you get here. Where’s Madame Pomphrey? Get her on the radio so I can talk to her first, before I do anything. First aid I can handle, but I am not a field medic.”

Striding into the room with Chiara Lobosca in tow, each of them pushing a trolley that is loaded down with medical supplies, Madame Pomphrey snaps her fingers authoritatively to get his attention, and then snatches the radio from McKinnon’s outstretched hand. “Well you are today, sister. You were the only one brave enough - or certifiable enough - to crawl in there with her. You’re all she’s got. So, prepare yourself for a crash course.”

McGonagall breathes heavily. “Okay, well, no time like the present.”

“What you described a moment ago sounds like shock; most likely brought on by the emotional strain of being stuck under there, or possibly, blood loss.”

“I don’t see blood but, then again, it is dark in here and she is lying under a giant piece of stone. I thought I smelled it earlier though.”

“Before you returned to your human form?”

“Yes.”

“Could be simply hidden from view, or she could be bleeding internally. Can you check her pulse and respiration for me?”

“Nine breaths per minute. Pulse rate 49.”

“Those were awfully fast answers, Minerva.”

“I checked 30 seconds ago, Poppy. I’m sitting here alone with her, I’ve got nothing to do but watch her, and she’s in and out of consciousness so I can’t rely on her to tell me how she’s doing.”

Madame Pomphrey turns to McKinnon. “We’ve got to get her out of there. The sooner the better.”

He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, thinking as he talks. “Minerva, can ye dae that patronus thing again, but instead of having it guide Wordsworth, can you send it oot the nearest possible exits – have it take the path of least resistance?”

“It doesn’t work that way, Laird. It only worked as his guide because I’d already traveled the path. I knew which way to send it. But, wait – maybe…”

“Maybe what? Dinnae ye stop noo!”

“Verdimilious sempre.”

“Say Again.” He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Well, would ye look a yon! Did ye mean to send out green bangers?”

“It worked? They’re coming out?”

“Fae a few different places, aye.”

“Good, they’ll keep going until I turn them off. Get out those spy cameras of yours and backtrack the sparks. Find out which path in is the fastest in and/or the most stable – and Laird, you might want to hurry.”

*****

While McKinnon works with his cameras and his team of helpers, Madame Pomphrey takes the radio out into the corridor to continue her conversation with McGonagall.

“I don’t like this, Poppy. She’s under for longer each time she loses consciousness. She’s fighting, that much is obvious, and I know that’s good but at some point, probably some point in the very immediate future, she’s going to find her limit. There’s only so much willpower can do once the body is incapable of complying. I want to do something. What good is my being here if all I’m doing is sitting on my hands.”

“She knows you’re there, Minerva. That’s what good you’re doing. She probably would have given up already if she were alone.”

“I just…”

“You just need to breathe. You’re sounding just the tiniest bit edgy. Try and relax.”

Even though she knows it’s sound advice, McGonagall laughs. “Relax?”

“Yes. Relax. You know, cooler heads and all that. Hang on! I never thought to ask. Well, I’ve never had reason to ask before today. You’re not claustrophobic, are you, Minerva?”

“I’ve never thought of myself as claustrophobic. I have always lived in small cozy spaces. I’ve never needed much room for just myself, but I must tell you, I’ve never been any place less desirable or with less elbow room. To say that I am eager to leave – well it might just be the understatement of the decade.”

“The last time you weren’t in this castle - where did you go?”

“I don’t know. What does it matter?”

“Humor me. Think Minerva. Where did you go?”

McGonagall scowls with concentration. “That would’ve been… to a pub in Inverness.”

“Say that again.”

“I went to a pub in Inverness.”

“I thought perhaps this contraption was malfunctioning.”

McGonagall answers crisply. “The radio is fine. You heard me correctly. I went to a pub known as The Owlery.”

“Merlin’s pants, Minerva McGonagall! You’re the last person I would’ve ever expected to hear admitting to visiting one of those underground places inside the muggle community.”

“The joke’s on you, Poppy. It’s not an underground establishment for witches and wizards. It’s a muggle pub.”

“Now I’m even more confused.”

“It’s within walking distance of the hospital where my niece, Logan, works. She was performing. She asked me to attend.”

“But the name?”

Being so close to the hospital, the place is frequented by doctors, nurses, and other young single professionals with busy lives. The man who owns the place has a rather twisted sense of humor. Owls are birds of prey. He says they are not unlike young single people looking for their next short-term commitment.”

Madame Pomphrey chuckles dryly. “Dear, I believe those are called one-night stands.”

“I’m aware of that.” McGonagall deadpans. “What they ought to be called is sheer stupidity. Young people running about as if they have not a care in this world. Never mind the fact that such behavior, in this day and age, will likely put you six feet under.”

“Did you say Logan was performing there?”

“I did.”

“Not surgery, I hope.”

“Of course not. When she’s not busy saving lives, she sings.”

“I didn’t know that. Is she any good?”

“I think the girl has a voice that would please the gods. But I might be just the tiniest bit biased.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“Better, thank you. “

“How’s our girl?”

“Out cold but holding steady. Pulse and respiration are the sa... Hey, what’s he doing out there?”

Mr. McKinnon? I don’t know. I’m out in the corridor. I wanted to talk to you without other people listening in.”

“Well, get back in there, now! Tell him I said to stop!”

McGonagall hears Madame Pomphrey’s tense voice courtesy of the open mic. “She says, “I’m to tell you to stop now!”

Looking up from his work, McKinnon raises an eyebrow. “Stop wit. Ah’m only tryin’ tae snake in a camera for a wee keek at things.”

“Well, Professor McGonagall says for you to stop!”

“Fir wye?”

When the radio in her hand makes an unpleasant noise, Madame Pomphrey jumps, badly startled.

“Stuff and nonsense. Use yer heid, woman! Gie’s that thing. Ye gonnae haud the button doon. She cannae talk tae a’body if ye haud the mic open.”

Offended, Madame Pomphrey hands over the radio as she sniffs, “My apologies. I’m not familiar with these contraptions. I’ve never even seen one before today.”

“Then perhaps ye shouldnae be messing aboot with dis ane.”

“Laird, take a breath!” McGonagall demands quietly.

“Ah’m breathing plenty.”

“You might do with another. The higher your blood pressure climbs, the harder it becomes to understand that heavy Scottish brogue of yours. And, you will not alienate my staff. We’re all just doing the best we can, Laird. I need her. I cannot do this without her.”

“Fir wye ah’m no putting the cameras in noo?”

“Because something is shifting in here. Things are moving. Just hold still for a minute.”

“Is’a comin’ doon?”

“Not at this very moment, but the sooner you make me an exit the better.”

“Wit is’a noise?”

“Misti is awake again.” McGonagall tells him before turning her attention to her student. “Shh, I’m here, girl.”

“Professor, it hurts. Something mov...” Misti screams.

“Wit’s happening?” When he receives no answer, McKinnon demands, “Minerva?”

Ignoring him, McGonagall drops the radio and focuses on the girl. “Miss Rivers – Misti, you’ve got to be still.”

The girl shakes her head wildly, and strains ineffectually against the piece of stone that is pinning her down. “I’m getting out!”

“No, stop. You’ll only do worse damage to yourself, girl.” McGonagall tries to still her movements, but already in less than the best condition herself, she cannot manage it. Giving in, and doing what she must, she prays before pointing her wand. “Poor child. God forgive me. Immobulus!”

“Minerva! Dammit woman, talk tae us! Wit’s happening a’yon?”

Stepping back into the room, Clayton Rivers looks to be a single breath away from panic. “Was that my daughter screaming? What’s happenin’?

Madame Pomphrey, Professor Sprout, and Kingsley Shacklebolt all gather around the man, trying to walk him backward through the door he just entered. When he resists, Shacklebolt pleads with him in a quiet voice. “Please sir, you don’t need to be here for this.”

“The hell I don’t!”

“Mr. Rivers, I know you want to be here for Misti. I understand completely, but it would be less of a distraction for the people working to free your daughter if you would kindly wait in the corridor. You won’t be that far away. You will know something as soon as we do.”

“I’m not going any damn…”

“Minister, let him in.” McGonagall declares calmly, courtesy of the radio. “She’s his daughter. He’s where he needs to be, and I need to talk to him anyway. Laird, give him the radio.”

Shaking his head emphatically, Mr. Rivers pushes the device back toward McKinnon. “I don’t know how that thing works.”

“Is nae trouble. Ah can work it fir ye. Ah haud the button doon. Ye talk, she can hear ye braw.”

River starts uncertainly. “Professor, why was she screaming?

As gently as possible, but without sugar-coating anything, McGonagall explains, “She returned to consciousness a moment ago, sir – is your son with you?”

“No ma’am. Molly escorted him to one of the downstairs bathrooms so he can freshen up a bit.”

“Very well. Each time Misti does regain consciousness, there’s a brief period of confusion. In that moment, she struggles. It causes her pain. She won’t do it anymore. I’ve immobilized her for her own safety. The spell can be easily reversed when the time is right. The spell itself will not harm her.”

“Why is she still under there?”

“I apologize for that, Mr. Rivers. Mr. McKinnon is working as fast as he can.”

“Can’t you get her out from under that stone?”

“I can but, you should know, that will be very risky. Moving the stone could cause further collapse. Doing so, may put us beyond rescue. However, things are starting to shift in here on their own which makes me think our time may be limited. Additionally, I’ve talked with our hospital matron, Madame Pomphrey who informs me that, in spite of the damage the stone has done to your daughter, it may also be keeping her alive. Pressure from the stone may be preventing massive blood loss. There’s really no way to tell for certain until the stone is moved. Doing so, means I can provide her with much needed medical attention. However, I’m not a trained healer. If we move the stone too early, and Misti needs more help than I alone can give her… Well, forgive me sir, but it’s dicey either way.”

“Will immobilizing her, the way you have, improve her odds?”

“Possibly. It’s also possible that doing so has done just as much harm as it has good. Misti can no longer injure herself further by struggling, but she is conscious at present. She cannot move, or speak, or even blink. To not be able to manipulate one’s own body must be a horrifying experience. To experience such a thing while trapped where we are - it was a monstrous choice to have to make, and I am so terribly sorry Mr. Rivers.”

“So, if we wait, that could be putting her at greater risk. If you move her, we might still be putting her at an equally great risk?”

“That is correct. The choice is yours, sir.”

“I don’t know that it should be. Not all mine, anyway.”

“Is there someone else in Misti’s life that you would like to consult before deciding.”

“No. You’ve misunderstood me. It’s not just my daughter’s life that’s at stake Professor. It’s yours too.”

“That should not influence your decision at all, Mr. Rivers.”

“Shouldn’t it?”

“No, sir. It should not. No matter which choice you make. You are not risking my life. It is not yours to risk. It is my own, and I’ve already made my choice. I made it the moment I decided to come in here.”

“Does the thought of death not scare you, even a little, Professor?”

“Fear of the unknown does give me a moment’s pause. As it does most people, but there are other things that scare me far more.”

“Such as?”

A meaningless existence, for one.”

“I don’t think you’re in any danger of that, Professor McGonagall. I don’t think a single person in this room thinks you’re in any danger of that at all.”

“What would you like me to do, Mr. Rivers?”

The man is quiet for an interminable beat before he says, “You think you can get her out from under that stone by yourself?”

I know I can lift the stone. I can’t promise you things will go the way you want them to.”

“I can’t stand the thought of her laying there unable to move, in pain, in the dark. If the end result might be the same either way – well, If it’s all the same to you, I’ll bet on my daughter. Can she hear me?”

“She cannot respond to what she hears. But the Immobulus charm doesn’t affect hearing. She can hear you. You can talk to her.”

He’s quiet for several long seconds before he says, “Hey baby. You stick around, okay. I know what I said last month, but the hell with work. We’ll make that trip. Next month, Shea Stadium - Just you, me, and Rip. All you gotta do is hang in there.”

McGonagall opens the mic. “I presume someone in the family is a baseball fan.”

Clayton Rivers nods as he talks. “That would be Missy. She wants to see all the major league stadiums in the world before she’s 25.”

“Sounds like a worthy endeavor to me.” McGonagall declares easily. I will do all I can to help her make it a reality. Put Mr. McKinnon back on, please.”

It takes a second or two before he responds, “Ye got me, lady.”

“I know you want me to wait - and I understand why. Don’t make me waste time arguing with you. Her respiration is decreasing by the minute. I’ve got to do something, Laird. So, listen closely and don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Ah’m hearin’ ye.”

“If things don’t go well. You get Madame Pomphrey, or Pomona to let you into my private quarters. You’ll need one of them to escort you. Under my bed, there’s a metal box. The key to that box is taped to the underside of the lid on Wordsworth’s dry food container. There are only two things in that box. One is my will. Make sure that my niece, Logan, gets it. She’ll know what to do with it.”

“Minerva, ye keep yer last will and testament under the bed with the oose? Ye havnae heard of a bank?”

She inhales and stifles a cough. “Yes, I know, banks have safety deposit boxes. Little metal boxes that only the bank, and the person who leases the box have keys to. The box under my bed serves the same purpose.”

He frowns but says nothing. When she doesn’t speak again immediately, he prompts her; just to get it over with, “And the other thing in the box?”

“The other thing is a stack of old letters. Burn them.”

McKinnon squints. “Ye keep these auld letters in a box with yer will, they must be pure important. Ye just want them turned tae cinders?”

“Yes, I do. I should’ve done it myself years ago. I couldn’t. That’s why they are in the box. I don’t want anyone to read them. They were - personal.”

“Not happy, but willing, he nods, bobbing his chin once in resolution “It shall be done.”

“Thank you, Laird.”

“Can, ah ask you something, Minerva?”

“If you must.”

“Time’s gone round the way more than once. Wis it nae more than 12 ½ years? The week after Elphistone’s funeral? Ye ken wit ah’m in mind of?”

McGonagall inhales deeply. “Yes, I know what you’re talking about. Laird, there is a reason we haven’t talked about it for nearly 13 years. It’s one of those things best left alone.’

“Ah’m no allowed wan wee question?”

“If you ask it quickly before I change my mind.”

“Wis it only the grief?”

She chuckles dryly. “Good god, man! You do like to ask questions, don’t you?”

“Truth?”

“It was mostly grief. At least 95% of it. So much so, Laird, that I’m not even sure the rest of it really matters.”

“It does. Ah want to ken the rest of it; the other 5%, and if this is me last chance to ask…”

McGonagall sighs in mild exasperation. “Call it … curiosity.” 

McKinnon’s mouth stretches into a wide grin. “Ah can live with that.”

She laughs. “Yer oaf yer nut, McKinnon.”

“Ye say the sweetest things, Professor.”

“Do you have any more questions for me?”

“Thousands…but ah dinnae ken the wean has time enough fir aw that.”

“No, I don’t think she does either. I’m putting the radio down now. You keep working.”

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he returns the radio to his belt. Turning to face his crew, he informs them, “The boss lady says, we’re gonnae tae stand around greetin’ - back tae work.”


	4. Rescue  Part II

* * *

McGonagall gently touches the tip of her wand to Misti’s neck and uses a slight upward sweeping motion. It takes her a second to do so, but when the girl turns her head slowly to one side and then the other, the professor smiles apologetically.

“I can move my head – and I can talk.” Misti whispers hoarsely and almost smiles. “I still can’t move anything else though.”

“I decided to try this. I hope it feels alright. I’ve never reversed just a portion of the Immobulus charm before. I imagine it’s awful, not being able to move your own body at will, but it’s best if you stay still. I’ll be able to help you better if I can talk to you and you can respond.”

Misti wrinkles her nose. “It’s alright. A bit odd, but alright. I’m sorry I freaked out a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t you dare apologize girl. I don’t know that I would do half as well as you have, if our positions were reversed.”

“That’s nice of you to say, Professor.”

“It’s nothing more or less than the truth, and while I am busy telling truths – you’re not doing too well. It also might be a while before they get here. If we leave you the way you are now, I don’t think you’re going to make it. I want to move the stone. Your father wants me to do that as well. If I can treat your injuries, your condition will improve.”

Misti nods adding with weak, but unmistakable enthusiasm. “I’m all for that. Especially if it means I get to get out from under here.”

“I’ll need you to go on being just as brave as you’ve already been, and then some. It might not be pleasant, but I am here, and I will not leave you.”

“Gray-faced and gasping for her next breath, Misti nods with determination.

“Good. Now then, do you have your wand?”

Tears instantly well in the corners of Misti’s eyes. “I do. But it’s probably useless. It’s in the pocket of my robes beneath the stone. It’s probably snapped.”

Her demeanor softening slightly, McGonagall pats Misti’s shoulder. “A wand can be replaced. You cannot.”

“I know… But Professor, it was my mum’s first wand. I was so happy when she said I could use it, and it worked really well for me too. Mum’s gone now and, if it’s broken, so is her wand.”

“Well then, I can certainly understand your attachment to it, but you shouldn’t cry over it until you’re certain you must. Perhaps it is not broken. Even if it is, at present, you have more important things to worry about. I’m quite certain your mother would agree with me. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I can never have a good cry without becoming congested at the same time. You have problems enough to deal with just now, I think it would be best if you didn’t go borrowing another.”

Misti nods and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand as McGonagall pats the pockets of her own robes and removes a second wand. “I relieved one of your fellow classmates of his wand moments before coming in here. I don’t think he will mind if you borrow it temporarily.” Lighting the wand tip with Lumos Maxima before she slips it into Misti’s grasp, she says with encouragement, “Here, hold it for me. I need my own wand available for other things.”

McGonagall looks around their cramped inhospitable space, and when she brushes dust off the surface of a flat piece of stone, and sits down; her gaze continuing to travel, Misti asks with quiet curiosity, “Professor, what happens next?”

“We think.”

“Think?”

“I find it helpful to do that before I act, Miss Rivers. I can move the smaller stones first without any foreseeable problem. They’re too small to do very much weight bearing. But once I start to move the larger ones, I will need some kind of plan in place for what to do if things start shifting.”

Misti whispers the first thought that comes to mind. “Well, you’re quite good at transfiguration.” 

McGonagall almost smiles. “So, you’re saying, go with my strengths?”

“I’m saying, if it’s easiest to transfigure two items that are kind of alike in some way, I guess that means we can’t transfigure all this stone into great big giant cotton balls. At least it wouldn’t hurt if those fell on us.”

“To the best of my knowledge there is no spell for turning, granite, flagstone, and marble into cotton balls, but keep thinking.”

“Can you create one?”

“Create a new spell? Here, in our present location?”

“Yeah… I mean, yes ma’am.”

“That’s not advisable.”

”Why not? Somebody had to say the very first incantation for the very first time, didn’t they? I mean, they probably didn’t do it by accident. They probably did it because they needed something, right?”

“That’s very likely. But new spell work requires absolute clarity of mind and no small amount of reverence. It can be extremely dangerous, and I think we have enough of that on our hands already.”

“OK, so no giant cotton balls.” Misti tries to shrug and then remembers that she can’t. “That would be cool though.”

“No giant cotton balls. I can, however, use the stone that is present to…” Her mouth becomes a thin line of grim determination. “Oh dear, this isn’t going to make Mr. McKinnon very happy.”

Misti’s eyes widen with curiosity as McGonagall picks up the radio that is resting at her feet.

“Laird?”

It takes a moment, and then his deep baritone fills up their small space. “Ah’m here. How’s the lass fairin?”

“She’s holding her own for the moment. We’re brainstorming – trying to come up with a plan of attack from the inside.”

“Just dinnae get ahead of yerself. Run it by me first.”

“That’s why I’m talking to you. I have a question.”

“Fire away, lady.”

“When you build a house, or any structure, I suppose - what do you do first?”

McKinnon stops fiddling with the viewfinder on one of his cameras and gives her his full attention. Ah’m not sure I ken what ye mean.”

“Which part do you build first? The frame for the walls, I’m guessing the floor, and then the roof?”

He chuckles. “Dinnae go quittin’ yer day job, Professor.”

“Okay, so I’m wrong. Teach me.”

McKinnon scratches his beard, uncertain what this is leading up to, but he launches in anyway. “Broad strokes without any of the finer points. First, ye lay the foundation, next comes the frame fir the walls, then the roof. After that, ye enclose the structure. The floor goes in dead last.”

McGonagall wobbles her head side to side. “Okay, that sort of makes sense. The foundation comes first, and the floor comes last because basically all it does is cover the foundation.”

“There’s a wee bit more tae it, but that’s the simplified version, Aye. You’re askin’ fir wye?”

“It’s going to take you awhile to get in here. I need to move Miss Rivers. I can’t do that without moving some of the stones in here, and if I follow what you’re telling me correctly, basically we’ve got the enclosure without the necessary support for it.”

“Brass tacks, Aye.”

“Where are the green sparks coming out? Top, bottom, or middle?”

“About 2/3 way up the middle. Closer tae the eastern side, I think. Ah’m guessin’ yer at the center of aw the green bangers.”

“That’s logical. So, the worst place possible?”

“Pretty much.”

“Because at any given moment what’s underneath us might collapse and we could fall, or the walls could fall in, or what basically is the roof – from our point of view.”

“Yer certainly nae havin’ a good day.”

“Okay, now it’s your turn. Pay attention. Gamp’s Law of elemental transfiguration has five principles. You don’t need an in-depth understanding of all of them, but barring exceptions, the foundation of the law states that - I cannot create something from nothing. I can take what I have and, in some cases, I can change it into something else - I can transfigure it, or I can take what I have and make more or less of it. With the exception of water, I cannot conjure something from thin air. The things I do have in absolute abundance as of this moment are flagstone, sandstone, granite and marble.”

He nods and, aware that others in the room are listening in, he turns up the volume on the radio. “Ah’m hearin’ ye.”

“Can we switch your current focus from getting us out, to stabilizing our location so that I can get Misti out from under this pile of stone without bringing the whole thing down on her head? Instead of working down from the top one piece at a time, have your crew go down to the third floor and stabilize our foundation. While you do that, I will work from in here to stabilize the walls and what’s overhead as best as possible. If we do it that way, it’ll take you longer to get in here, but it will minimize the physical danger she’s in, and give me time to stabilize her medical needs as well.”

“Ah’m following along, but I missed a step somewhere. Whut exactly is it ye want us tae dae?”

Catching on, Harry grins as he whispers. “Bloody brilliant!”

McKinnon’s gaze pivots his way. “Whut was that, Harry?”

“Tell her I said she’s bloody brilliant!”

Harry turns to his friends. “C’mon, you lot! We’re going back downstairs. We’ve been doing this backward.”

Hermione squints in confusion and raises her hand as if she were in class. “I’m sorry, but I’m lost. What are we doing?”

Harry approaches and drops an arm around her shoulders. “Remember our third year – when McGonagall taught us how to turn things into stone?”

“Harry, you’re not making any sense.”

“Instead of taking stone away, we should be adding it.”

Hermione and Dean express dire incredulity at the same moment. “Adding it, are you mad! We’re trying to dig them out, not bury them.”

Harry turns to McKinnon. “I know you’ve probably never done it this way before, but If we go downstairs and expand the stone, or fill the gaps between the stones with more stone, it will stabilize their foundation and keep them from falling. If we keep the walls from tumbling in on them, Professor McGonagall can get Misti safely out from under the stone, treat her, and then we can figure out how to get them out."

McKinnon opens the mic on his radio. “Ah ken fir why ye want us tae dae this, but if we leave things the way they are noo, it’s still going tae take us hours tae get in there. If we go addin’ more stone, Minerva, it might take days tae get ye oot of there.”

“Understood.” Just have someone tell the house elves to leave food and clean water in the center of the third Gryffindor table in the kitchens.”

McKinnon squints. “Ah’ve seen ye use yer wand fir food afore.”

There’s the smallest hint of wry amusement in her voice when she says, “I told you to pay attention. I cannot conjure something from nothing. The reason I can pull water from the air, is because water is literally two parts hydrogen, one-part oxygen. It’s literally in the air. However, the air in here is not clean which means any water I pull from it, won’t be clean either. Food is one of those five exceptions I mentioned. When it comes to food, I can make more or less of what I already have; or I can move food from a precisely known location, which is what you’ve seen me do with my wand. I cannot, however, turn stone into manna.”

He laughs. “Are ye sure aboot that?”

McGonagall answers dryly. “I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

Harry taps McKinnon on the shoulder and whispers, “We turned off the castle’s water supply.”

McKinnon shrugs easily enough. “There’s more than a building on the grounds.” He looks around, raising his voice. “Dae any of the oot buildings have a direct water source?”

Professor Sprout steps forward. “All of my greenhouses have their own water supply, and there’s Hagrid’s hut and vegetable patch as well.”

McKinnon nods. “There lies her clean water. Whut was she saying aboot the center of the third Gryffindor table?”

“We should have the house elves in the kitchens put food and water – and possibly medical supplies- there. If she knows the precise location of something, she can use her wand to call for it. She just has to know exactly where it is, otherwise, it won’t work.”

“Can you make that happen?” McKinnon queries

Professor Sprout steps toward the door. “On my way.”  
  


“Laird.” McGonagall calls out.

“Yes ma’am.”

“I know they’re going to find this request odd but tell them a bucket of ice would be lovely.”

“Still a bit warm in there, is it?”

“This place is always been a bit too old and drafty to need things like electric lights and air conditioning. That being said, Miss Rivers and I would truly love some just now.”

“Ah hate tae tell ye this, Professor, but even if ye did have it, it wouldn’t be working at the moment. The power would have to be shut off for safety reasons.”

Suddenly excited, Harry interrupts, his voice dripping with self-recrimination. “The house elves are back.”

Unsure how to interpret this, McKinnon releases his hold on the radio’s transmission button and stares at the boy in puzzlement. “Whut does that mean fir us, lad?”

McGonagall responds to Harry’s statement. “Of course, they are, Mr. Potter. They returned to the castle this morning. It is their home.”

“But that’s it!” Harry exclaims, trotting for the door. “That’s how we get you out!” Sticking his head out the door, he calls the Herbology teacher back. “Professor Sprout! Come back, please. You don’t need to go down.”

By the time Sprout retraces her steps, Harry is talking animatedly to Professor McGonagall courtesy of the radio still held in McKinnon’s good hand. “Professor Dumbledore could apparate despite the ban on apparition on castle grounds. I just assumed it was a privilege extended to the headmaster, but if you could do that with Misti, you would’ve already done it.”

“That is correct, Mr. Potter.

“It’s okay, Professor. You don’t have to. I think I’ve got a way to get you both out of there in just a few minutes. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before.”

“If you’ve got a way to make it happen, don’t waste time apologizing.”

Grinning broadly, Harry raises his voice slightly as he calls out, “Kreacher?”

He waits 3 seconds and tries again. “Kreacher, this is Harry. If you can hear me, please answer.”

Picking up the thread of his thoughts, Hermione smiles and mouths, “Oh Harry, yes!”

Feeling daft, Harry whispers, “I forgot he was here!”

McKinnon frowns, asking dubiously, “Who or whut is dis Kreacher?”

It is at this precise moment that the entire room is filled with a loud cracking noise as the stoop-shouldered, and disgruntled-looking elf materializes six inches in front of Harry, beady-eyed and glaring, even as he bows his head so low that his elongated hooked nose nearly touches the floor.

Frowning at the crowd, Kreacher intones drolly. “Harry Potter called Kreacher. Kreacher has come.”

“Kreacher, I have a really important favor to ask of you.”

“Kreacher has kitchen work to do,” He sneers. Someone left filth in the kitchen. “Some disgusting blood-traitor…”

“Kreacher!” Harry scolds in irritation. “I thought you were done with talk like that!”

Kreacher frowns and grumbles quietly, “Kreacher cannot even call death eaters blood-traitors?”

Harry’s eyes widen noticeably behind his glasses. “Oh!”

He glances at Hermione who shrugs and then nods approvingly. “If anyone deserves to be called a traitor to their own kind, it’s them.”

Harry nods his agreement. “Alright Kreacher. It’s okay to call death eaters blood-traitors.”

“One of the vermin relieved himself in Kreacher’s favorite soup kettle.”

Katy Bell sticks out her tongue, gagging in revulsion. “OK, I’m never eating soup in this castle again.”

Hermione instructs, “Kreacher, just throw the pot out. Harry will buy you a new one.”

Harry nods eagerly. I’ll buy you all the soup pots you could possibly ever use if you help me today Kreacher.”

Reminded of their changed regard for one another, the sour-faced elf relents. “Harry Potter and his friends were good to Kreacher before Kreacher was good to them. Harry Potter proved Master Regulus was noble and worthy of honor. What Harry Potter asks, Kreacher will do.”

Turning, Harry points at the huge pile of stone. “Professor McGonagall and one of the students, a girl named Misti, are under there. We need to get them out before the whole thing collapses and crushes them to death. Getting in is very dangerous for us. We can’t apparate on school grounds, but you can, and Misti is trapped. She needs help now. Will you go in and help Professor McGonagall bring her out safely? Will you use your magic to help them?”

Clayton Rivers groans with irritation. “If the elf answers to you, boy, then just order him to do it!”

Kreacher suddenly looks worried and twice as hostile.

Before he can start grumbling under his breath again, Harry calmly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rivers. I won’t do that. A short while ago you expressed concern for Professor McGonagall’s well-being even though your daughter is the one trapped in there. Kreacher is entitled to the same courtesy. His life is not worth less than either of theirs just because he’s an elf.”

Kreacher’s gaze travels slowly from one man to the other before his dark angry eyes return to the pile of stone and mortar. Turning once more to face Harry, he mutters curiously, “Professor McGonagall?”

“That’s right.”

“Tall old witch? Likes to wear outstanding hats? Hard face, but still kind to students and house elves?”

Harry can’t help but smile just a little. “Yeah, that’s her.”

Kreacher shuffles uncomfortably and mutters quietly. “The other elves were not happy when Professor Snape took over. Dumbledore invited Kreacher to come and stay at Hogwarts. Kreacher liked Hogwarts until Snape was in charge. Snape said the Carrow’s could do dark things to the elves. They were going to cast the imperious curse on Kreacher. Kreacher wanted to run away, but Harry Potter said Kreacher was to stay at Hogwarts. Kreacher did not run, and McGonagall said no. She would not let them do dark things to Kreacher.”

“So, she helped you. Will you return the favor?”

“Kreacher will help McGonagall. Kreacher will do whatever she says.”

The elf disappears with another echoing crack.

*****

An instant later, Misti yelps in surprise when the elf magically appears with another loud crack at McGonagall’s left side.

“It’s alright Miss Rivers. It’s only Kreacher. He works in the kitchens. He helps prepare your meals and provides you with housekeeping.”

Misti eyes the elf with the disgruntled countenance with a noticeable amount of doubt present in her own eyes. “Why is he here?”

Kreacher answers for himself. “Harry Potter bade Kreacher to come. Kreacher came.”

“You are Harry Potter’s elf?”

“I am Kreacher. I serve the most noble House of Black.”

Misti’s eyes widen in alarm. “But I thought the Black family was full of dark wizards and witches.”

Kreacher grumbles, trying not to snarl. “Not all of them were dark. Master Regulus was not. Master Sirius was not always kind, but he was not dark, and neither is his godson. Harry Potter is his heir. He has slain the Dark Lord. He has brought honor to the Black family. Kreacher is proud to serve. Kreacher will help you, but you must not speak ill of his masters.”

“But how can you help us? We don’t need someone to clean or cook dinner just now.”

“Kreacher can take you out of here.”

“You can?”

McGonagall nods. “He can. If that’s what he chooses to do.”

“I’m sorry.” Misti implores. “I didn’t mean to be rude. All our house elf ever does is cook and clean. I didn’t know you could do other things.”

“Miss Rivers, all beings are capable of more than just their occupation. To Kreacher, McGonagall says, “We need to do more than just apparate. I need to move the stone holding her down. I can do it, but I need you to make certain that what is above us doesn’t topple in on us, and that what’s below doesn’t collapse while I work. Can you do that, Kreacher?”

“It would be easier not to split focus. Kreacher can keep the bottom from collapsing. Before that, Kreacher should just vanish the top and the sides. McGonagall cannot do this?”

“Were I in here alone, I would attempt it in a heartbeat, but it’s a lot to manage on one’s own, especially when my safety is not all that needs to be considered. And the truth is, at present, I am not at my best. If the bottom falls out from under us at the same moment, there will be a very loud thud when we hit the ground a story and ½ below.”

Kreacher ponders this for a moment, nods slightly, and then snaps his fingers. 

McGonagall and Misti watch in appreciation as the floor beneath them, made up of countless pieces of jagged stone - all of them jutting this way and that with several sharp edges - begins to fuse and mold together, melting and hardening into one solid base of stone.

As if he has performed no major feat, Kreacher declares, “It will not fall now. It is safe.”

“And, you’re certain you can vanish the top and the sides without incident?”

When Kreacher scowls in response to the perceived slight, McGonagall offers, “Forgive me for doubting. My first responsibility is Miss Rivers’ well-being.”

Kreacher snaps his fingers again and the walls and stone above them also solidify.

The radio at her feet instantly squawks and McKinnon complains loudly, “Whut the bloody hell! If that ugly little imp has just sealed ye in…”

McGonagall tries to interrupt, causing the radio to screech horribly for those in the room outside her current confinement. She waits a second, and then tries again with much more success, even though the radio does now crackle with poor reception. “Relax Laird. He’s an elf, not an imp. That’s an entirely different species, and he’s likely to find the comparison offensive.”

I dinnae bloody care if he’s offended. He’s just sealed ye in there. Ye noo have a very limited oxygen supply.”

“He breathes oxygen too, Laird. He needs it just as much as we do. It’s easier to vanish one solid piece of stone than it is to vanish hundreds of pieces simultaneously. He knows what he’s doing. I’m guessing there’s about to be a very loud noise. You might want to prepare yourselves, but you shouldn’t be in any danger out there.”

McGonagall puts the radio down again and speaks to Kreacher. “He’s normally a very kind man. I hope you won’t hold it against him. He’s very worried about us and he’s a muggle. He may not know the difference between elves and imps.”

Kreacher mutters snidely. “Or perhaps he does. Perhaps he chose his words with deliberation.”

Because she cannot make a sound argument against the supposition, McGonagall simply shrugs. “So, show him what good you can do.”

Kreacher snaps his fingers again, and a horizontal crack begins to form at McGonagall’s shoulder level in the thick walls encircling them.

The resulting horrendous noise is deafening and terribly unsettling. So much so that, even though she resists the urge to duck and cover her own head, McGonagall moves to stand directly over Misti and casts a protective charm around the girl, just to be on the safe side.

The horrifying noise continues for more than a solid minute, but, once they are completely encircled by the crack in the stone walls, the upper portion of their enclosure vanishes from sight like the top of an eggshell being removed from a soft-boiled egg and discarded. 

Light and cleaner air instantly permeate the place and, after nearly 36 hours of darkness, Misti squeezes her eyes shut against the resulting pain, but she can’t keep herself from smiling.

Another loud roar of celebration fills the room.

McGonagall tries to make herself heard above the din. 

Once again, unable to compete, she says drolly into the radio, “Laird, at present, I don’t have the lung capacity. If you wouldn’t mind…”

Barely able to hear her beneath the tumultuous racket, he still understands.

Placing the thumb and forefinger of his good hand into his mouth, he whistles loudly enough to nearly pierce eardrums. Thus, causing multiple people to wince, cover their ears, and in some cases, even duck as though expecting to be hit over their heads.”

He roars, “There is still work to be done here. Postpone the party!”

McGonagall declares dryly, “Thank you. I need Madame Pomphrey in here first.”

“Alright, gie’s me a wee minute tae figure that oot, Professor. The opening is between floors. We’ll have tae lower her doon.”

Even before he’s finished speaking, Hermione points her wand made of vine at a pile of stones that had been moved safely to one side of the room and says quietly, “Duro Ponte.”

McKinnon watches with equal parts fascination and appreciation as bits of stone flow into the air and merge into a haphazardly constructed narrow, but solid-looking sort of stone gangplank that runs down from the fifth floor to the opening of the enclosure. He nods as proper support for this makeshift bridge forms beneath it and he smiles when she then uses her wand to call for the braided rope tie backs that hold open the dust-laden drapes in the room.

The draperies fall over the windows shutting out the sunlight and the room momentarily falls into darkness, but Katy Belle is quick to use Lumos along with a delicate flick of her wrist. Turning a slow circle, she sends jets of light streaming into the few wall sconces that remain undamaged and are generally only lit at night inside the portrait gallery.

With more than enough light to continue her work, Hermione offers Katy a smile of thanks before she magically elongates the black and gold tassled pieces of braided rope and secures them at either end of the bridge. Nodding, she declares, “There, those ropes won’t keep anybody from going over the edge, but they will give you something to cling to, if need be.”

Having already picked up an armload of bandages and other first-aid items she is likely to need, Madame Pomphrey sets them down again, opting to keep her hands free, and stows her wand in the pocket of her apron so that she might call for them as they are needed. “Is now the wrong time to mention that I’m not particularly fond of bridges… of any sort.”

“Noo is actually the best time tae let us ken that sort of thing.” McKinnon holds up his good hand to momentarily halt her progress as he secures the safety line of his harness once more before stepping out onto the narrow bridge, walking to the halfway point and deliberately bouncing on the balls of his feet a few times, testing its integrity before allowing anyone else to venture forward. When the narrow walkway doesn’t collapse under his weight and send him plummeting to the end of his safety lead, he walks back the way he came and offers the matron his arm. “Shall we?”

Madame Pomphrey takes his arm willingly, but ten steps across and she has second thoughts. When she tightens her grip on his arm and her eyes start casting about in fear, he smiles and gently applies a light pressure to the underside of her chin with his grifter, forcing her to make eye contact. “Oh no me dear. Dinnae go looking doon there. There’s nae a single thing doon there that ye want tae see just noo.” He loops his good arm discreetly around her lower back and pulls her to his side. “Ye just keep yer eens on mine and we’re just going to waltz ourselves right across here like we have nae a care in this world.”

Madame Pomphrey huffs with indignation. “You make it sound like we’re gliding across the dance floor at some grand ball, but we aren’t. If I’m looking at you, how am I supposed to watch where I’m going.”

Still unable to see them, but listening in, McGonagall calls out to assure her, “Poppy, you don’t need to see where you’re going. It’s alright. You can trust him. He won’t let you fall. Just let him lead you. I know he’s big as a bear, but he never misses a step, I promise.”

“What happened to his right arm?”

Distracting her as they move, McKinnon smiles. “That had nae a thing tae dae with falling oof bridges, or dancin’ Madame. I had me a wee fishing accident is aw.”

Momentarily distracted from her worries, Madame Pomphrey squints doubtfully, “Oh really? And what sort of fishing accident takes a man’s arm off?”

“Is nae completely oof, thank the almighty god fir that. I still got me own natural elbow.”

“Yes, I can see how that would be of great benefit to you, but how did you lose the rest of it?”

“Shark. Took It right oof, he did.”

Madame Pomphrey pales. “That must’ve been horrifying.”

McKinnon shrugs. “Ah dinnae take it personally. Ah’m guessin’ he was just hungry.”  
  
She stares incredulously, momentarily at a complete loss for what to say next, until she realizes that his eyes are alive with laughter. “You’re having me on!” Suddenly relieved to look down and find that she’s reached her destination, she grimaces at McGonagall and declares, “Minerva, He’s having me on!”

“Of course, he is.” The transfiguration teacher declares dryly as she waves her wand and neatly transfigures the healer’s customary ankle length skirt and apron into a pair of trousers. “Trust me, you will thank me in a few minutes after you’ve climbed down in here.”

“You’re still in your usual attire, sans the strange looking hat.”

“Yes, well, our skulls can be cracked by giant falling slabs of stone. And as for my robes, I didn’t crawl in here wearing them, and I’m not planning to crawl back out wearing them either. I came in as a cat. I’m going out the same way. I can’t use my arms to hoist myself up out of here, especially not with my shoulder in this sling, but I should be able to climb out on four legs.”

“You need to rethink that. Transforming isn’t a good idea right now, I’m almost positive you’ve cracked those ribs again.”

“Trust me. I definitely have. I can feel it with every breath, not to mention every move I make, but you can worry about me later.” McGonagall reaches up with the arm that’s not tethered to her side and helps guide Pomphrey down.

Mindful of each move she makes, the matron descends slowly. When her feet find solid stone, she squeezes herself in between the headmistress and the house elf and offers her young patient a stiff but encouraging smile. “Don’t you worry now girl. We’ll have you out of here in a trice.”

Misti offers her half a smile. “I’d really like not to be here.”

“You won’t be for much longer. You’ve been exceptionally brave so far. You’re a strong girl, and I promise, we will get you out. You needn’t worry about that.”

“I know that. I’ve known that since Professor McGonagall turned up.” Misti declares weakly. 

Madame Pomphrey checks her pulse. 

Purely to distract herself, from the pain she suspects she’s about to feel and maybe because she’s stalling, just a little bit. Misti turns her eyes back to McGonagall. “That man you’re talking to on the radio…”

“His name is Mr. McKinnon. I don’t know if you can see him from where you are, but he’s right up there. I’ll introduce the two of you soon enough.”

Wishing not to be impolite, Misti whispers curiously, “What’s wrong with his arm?”

“He wears a prosthetic. He’s missing his right forearm and hand. And I’m afraid I don’t know what happened to them.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Almost 18 years.”

“And he’s never told you?”

McGonagall smirks. “Not truthfully, no. He seems to enjoy entertaining people with tall tales regarding the loss. I personally suspect he was somewhere doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. And I don’t believe for a single second that it had anything to do with a hungry shark.”

Misti chuckles breathlessly. “He sounds like fun to me.”

McGonagall takes the girl’s hand in hers. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

Misti’s eyes widen reflexively and she clarifies with no small amount of dread in her words. “I’m ready to ‘be’ out of here. I’m not quite so sure about ‘getting’ out of here. I don’t think that’s going to be any fun at all.”

McGonagall places the tip of her wand gently against the girl’s temple and speaks barely above a whisper. “Adducere ad somnum.”

“Tell my dad, I…” Misti yawns and the rest of her words fade into an indiscernible slur as her body goes soft and limp, and sleep washes over her.

Madame Pomphrey shrugs and whispers confidentially. “Induced sleep will lower her heartrate and lower the risk of catastrophic blood loss, but If this stone is preventing her from bleeding out, the rebound pain when we move it would have done the same job. She would have passed out on her own, Minerva.”

“Not before her screams terrify her father and brother, not to mention the rest of the people out there in that room.”

“Yes, but it would’ve been easier for her to come back around later. Now, she will likely sleep for four or five days straight before she so much as rolls over.”

“So, let her sleep. Her body’s going to need to heal. How many times have you told me that sleep is one of the best things for healing?”

“Says the woman who has just re-injured how many patched up bones?”

“While she is here on the grounds of Hogwarts school, she is my responsibility. You know that. You also know that it’s different. She is a child. I am not; and I have seen grown men who would weep like frightened toddlers in a situation like this. There’s no need for her to suffer more than she already has.”

“Except, that if you put her under, and take away all her pain while she sleeps peacefully, what does she learn from it? What’s to prevent her from doing something like this again next year.”

“Spoken like someone who has never spent a day and 1/2 locked in a very small, very dark space. Trust me. This, she will never do again. None of them will.”

Madame Pomphrey cuts her eyes sideways and, looks at the transfiguration teacher curiously courtesy of her peripheral vision as they move small stones and debris out of their way. “Have you spent a great deal of time locked in a small dark space yourself?”

“Not a great deal of time, no. But more than I would care to think about just now; if you don’t mind.” She points her wand at the massive piece of flagstone concealing the lower portion of Misti Rivers’ body. “Get ready.”

Madame Pomphrey nods, readying her own wand.

Despite unmistakable discomfort, McGonagall lowers herself to her knees before banishing the stone. The instant she does, a small flowing wound in the anterior surface of Misti’s left thigh rips open wide and blood spurts freely into the puddle of dirty water that covers the girl nearly to her navel.

Lunging forward, McGonagall tosses her wand from her dominant hand to the one held close to her body by the shoulder sling she wears and applies as much pressure to the gushing wound as she possibly can. Inhaling deeply with surprise that she knows she shouldn’t feel, she eases the tip of her wand beneath her hand and declares, “Humanum vascularium,”

After 3 seconds, the wound stops supplying fresh blood to the muddy water, and McGonagall nods succinctly before following the first spell with, “Sectum reparandam.” Lifting her bloodstained hand, she watches as Misti’s skin mends and the wound begins to close. Only when it is sealed with little more than a blemish, does she allow herself to exhale, releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Slowly, she turns her gaze to meet Madame Pomphrey’s

The other woman smiles derisively. “And you needed me here, for what, precisely?”

“In case I screwed that up. Poppy, I’ve never raised a child. I’ve never sat up at 3:00 AM because of an infant ear infection, treated croup, nor the measles, or dragon Pox. I’ve never treated an allergic reaction to monkshood, or even so much as a minor fracture, much less …” McGonagall gestures inarticulately in Misti’s direction. “This!” She swipes a loose lock of hair away from her forehead with the back of her free hand and inadvertently smears blood on her face. “I didn’t want this poor girl to be the one to pay the price for my ineptitude.”

The hospital wing’s matron laughs. “What ineptitude? You may not have treated any of the things you just mentioned personally, but you obviously have at least a passing knowledge of normal childhood ailments - for the children of both wizards and muggles.”

“At this moment, I can’t recall how I acquired any of that knowledge.” McGonagall breathes deeply.

“Whether you gave birth to them or not, Minerva, you’ve been educating and caring for children nearly every day for the last 41 years. Obviously, you’ve picked up a thing or two. It’s not like you to doubt yourself.”

“I imagine recent events have us all feeling a little displaced. I don’t normally treat the injuries of children in life or death situations. And, for what it’s worth, I doubt myself on a fairly regular basis. I just don’t normally let people know about it. Stop trying to bolster my self-confidence and come look at her foot. It’s badly broken. The bones feel like gravel. I don’t know how she wasn’t writhing in agony.”

“She was in shock. She couldn’t feel it, at least not to the extent that she should’ve been able to. The mind has ways of protecting itself when the body has been through too much. I will mend the bones in her foot. You call for a splint. I want to immobilize this leg before we move her, just to be on the safe side until we get her to the hospital wing where she belongs.”

*****

When a sizable collection of medical supplies including bandages, a first aid kit, a complicated-looking box splint, a backboard, and a neck brace all disappear from the carts in the room, McKinnon returns his gaze to the opening in the altered pile of stone. Without a clear line of sight down to the women he asks, “Ladies, can ah get a status update?”

Busy working in tandem with Madame Pomphrey, McGonagall answers distractedly; her eyes never leaving Misti, or the task at hand. “We’ll all be out momentarily, Laird. We’re just mending the injuries we can see and stabilizing her in case there are injuries we can’t see.”

“Ah cannae hear a’thing fae the lass.”

“I’ve induced sleep to keep her as comfortable as possible. Just give us time to work. Patience please, everyone.”

Slowly, moving with exaggerated care, McGonagall encircles Misti’s neck with a padded stabilization collar. Turning her attention to the elf, she queries, “It’s a tight fit in here. It’ll be a bit difficult for us to manage. Kreacher, can you place the basket stretcher beneath her without moving her?”

Kreacher complies without speaking and when it’s done in the time it takes to blink, McGonagall nods tersely. “That’ll do.”

Still working on the bones in Misti’s foot, Madame Pomphrey instructs, “Make sure the straps are snug. I don’t want to lose her on the way out.”

Nodding and pulling the strap around Misti’s torso a bit tighter, McGonagall asks, “Are those bones going to mend well enough?”

“I need to get her out of here before I’ll know for sure. It’s too dark in here and there’s not enough room to move. I need a boot cast. I don’t want to injure her even worse while we’re moving her.”

McGonagall gives her wand a gentle beckoning flick and the needed item appears in Madame Pomphrey’s hands. “Shrink it to fit if you need to. It’s not pediatric, but it should do the trick.”

Pomphrey squints. “You just happen to have one of these things laying about.”

“Last year. Four stunning spells to the chest. Remember? I broke my ankle on the way down. You fixed it for me, but I still limped about for a while, even after I was finally released from St. Mungo’s.”

“You were lucky that ankle was all you broke.”

“I’m lucky to still be breathing.” McGonagall quips dryly. She waits for the matron to slide the boot into place and then secure its fastenings. “Are we ready?” She rises slowly to her feet and places her left hand firmly around the basket handle closest to her.

Madame Pomphrey takes hold of a handle herself and waits for Kreacher to do likewise before she nods, giving the elf an unspoken, ‘all-clear for takeoff.’

Although no one would consider her to be a woman of weak constitution, McGonagall’s steels herself as her insides begin to swirl turbulently. She closes her eyes and presses her lips shut tightly against the rising tide of sick. She dreads the familiar feeling of that hook just behind her navel. Under more enjoyable circumstances, she would have to marshal the temptation to delay transport. The situation being what it is, she just wants to get it over with. Apparition has never been her favorite mode of travel. Skilled though she is at it, there are so many other far more enjoyable ways for a body to get from point A to point B. She loathes the out-of-control spinning sensation of being snatched through time and space. It’s a closely guarded secret, but if the truth were told, it is the one and only part of being a witch that she genuinely detests. 

When it is over, she doesn’t get the moment she needs to collect herself. Not yet ready to move, she scarcely has time to inhale much less open her eyes before she hears Madame Pomphrey quietly cast “Locomotor humanum,” and feels Misti’s weight being lifted from her grasp. 

Stepping back hard on her injured heel, amid the noise of excited students, faculty, and parents, for an instant, she’s sure she’s going down. However, just as she feels her knees begin to buckle, McKinnon is there behind her, as strong and as silent as an unspoken prayer, with his warm hand at her elbow the instant before she feels the unyielding steel of his prosthetic at her waist. 

For no one’s ears but her own, he whispers, “Steady.”

It isn’t much, but it’s everything Minerva needs to right herself. Turning, and patting his shoulder once in gratitude, She steps away from him with the faintly clean scent of his cologne registering in the forefront of her mind as she quickly surrenders any notion of following Madame Pomphrey, who is moving at a pace much too fast for her in her compromised condition, and heading straight to the hospital wing.

Taking charge once again, she straightens her spine and clears her throat. “Miss Lobosca, you’re with Madame Pomphrey and Professor Sprout. Mr. Rivers, follow that stretch…” She stops short, realizing that Misti’s father and younger brother need absolutely no direction, as they are already quick stepping across the room, making their way through the crowd, trying to get their first glimpse of the girl. “Poppy, I’ll be downstairs as soon as I’m able.”

Already out in the corridor beyond the portrait gallery, Madame Pomphrey calls over her shoulder. “You most certainly will not! You will retire to your quarters and take to your bed immediately, if not sooner! I’ll be there to check on you as soon as ‘I’ am able.”

Nodding, McGonagall turns again and looks at the mess waiting to be put to rights. Her quiet laughter is dry and devoid of humor as she mutters beneath her breath, “I’ll get right on that.”


	5. Ante Reparandam

* * *

Motioning for McKinnon’s ad hoc team to gather round, McGonagall commands, “With me, ladies and gentlemen.”

Katy Bell shakes her head in obvious doubt. “Professor, I don’t think any one of us is going to be able to fix this on our own. I mean, what a mess!”

“That’s why no one is going to do it alone. We’re going to do it together as a team, the same way you’ve done everything else today. Spread out. Make a circle around the collapse. Holding hands with the people closest to you or take the arm or elbow of your neighbor’s wand hand.”

She takes Harry’s left hand in her right, and Kingsley Shacklebolt steps up beside her, taking her left elbow as she continues. “Don’t break the circle. Keep contact with the people nearest you. We’re going to cast as one, with Mr. Potter leading the way.” She nods to him in silent communication that he understands and trades his wand made of holly for the elder wand in the pocket of his robe. “Everyone… Hardhats on, ear plugs in, wands aloft, and…”

She gestures for McKinnon to back up and stand clear when she notices his approach. 

“Mr. Potter, when you’re ready, the incantation is ‘Castelleum Reparandam.”

Nodding to the others, Harry enunciates clearly.

The floor, the walls, the ceiling, the castle itself seems to shudder and groan in protest, like a feeble old woman who has no desire to rise at the start of a new day. She has seen too much of life and simply wants to be left to languish in peace.

Feeling this resistance, McGonagall almost smiles. Not at all surprised when, beside her, Harry mutters barely under his breath, “C’mon girl, don’t you quit on us now. You’re young yet. We’ll put you right again. You just help us out and you’ll still be standing long after I’m dust.”

A few feet from his left, Hermione whispers, “Harry, who are you talking to?”

Harry shrugs. “The castle.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Harry, it is not a living thing.”

Wholly undeterred, Harry grins and fires back, “Says you.”

Chuckling, Dean Thomas concurs with Harry. “Yeah, Hermione, don’t insult her. She’s already feeling a bit churlish.”

Luna adds, “You would be too if you’d been blown half to bits. Try giving her some love instead.”

Hermione is ½ breath away from smirking when the jet of dazzling cobalt blue light flowing from the tip of Harry’s extended wand goes a brilliant blinding white and begins to saturate the room. As the floor underfoot begins to quake with volatility, the horrible sound of the colossal mound of stone breaking apart into hundreds of pieces permeates the air.

Realizing that Harry must’ve followed Luna’s advice, Dean and Katie turn to each other and shrug, willing to give it a go. 

Long moments later, when they’ve all decided to follow suit, including Hermione, the stone finally stops breaking apart and the unbearable noise fades away, much to the relief of their ears, and various types of stone begin to rise and swirl gently into the air; each piece returning itself to its former place. Cracked walls mend, as do the blighted portraits that hang upon them. Broken walls sconces set themselves to rights, and light flickers into existence where previously there had been none. Marble columns rise. Draperies freshen themselves without being taken down and beaten into submission, and the glass that had erupted from the open windows settles back into place; whole and unblemished. The last things to be restored are the hole in the middle of the fifth floor, a crumbled statue, and the splintered door that hangs slightly askew at the east entrance; half off its hinges.

McGonagall looks around the room, making certain that nothing else is amiss. She steps across the room and quietly retrieves the walking cane she had abandoned earlier. Turning to face them once again, she declares, “Good work, everyone. Well done. I suggest you all make your way onto the grounds and enjoy some fresh air. Turning and making eye contact with him, she admits, “Professor Flitwick, I need some downtime. As of this moment, you’re in charge until otherwise notified.”

The dwarf nods his understanding. “What would you like me to focus on?”

“Roping off the damaged or unsafe areas of the castle. Let the house elves know that people will be staying with us tonight. Dinner and breakfast for approximately - what, 100 people - will be required. “

“Best to say 200, I think. Better to over-prepare, than not have enough.”

McGonagall nods in agreement before continuing, “Madame Pomphrey gets anything she asks for. I don’t care what it is. Make yourself available to parents. Especially those of the children we’ve just rescued, or those who lost a child in the battle. Beyond that, Filius, don’t let them burn the place down, and don’t disturb me unless the place ‘is’ burning down.”

“Understood Headmistress.” Flitwick hurries away to see to his appointed rounds.

She turns her gaze to Kingsley Shacklebolt. “I presume you would like a word, Minister.” 

“Indeed. If you allow me to escort you to your office, I promise, I will make it quick, and then leave you to rest.”

She motions for McKinnon to accompany them. “Gentlemen, right this way.”

Moving slowly, she makes her way out into the corridor and down one of the few staircases left largely undamaged at this level. 

On the way to her office, Shacklebolt asks, “How exactly did three junior students come to be trapped under that pile? Because it’s only a matter of time before their parents go home and tell their neighbors about it, at which point they are going to be calling both you and me.”

“I didn’t witness the collapse. So, I’m afraid I can’t yet answer that. Prior to this moment, I haven’t really bothered asking questions. Getting them out was my first priority. Now that they are, and two of them are largely unharmed, I’ll direct you to Filius. If you want to talk to the students themselves, I suggest speaking with Ripley Rivers. He’s a bit calmer than Miss Cordelia Drakes. Magnus Thorne was not trapped with the three of them, but he returned to the castle last night with them or, to be more precise, the three of them returned with him. The boy sneaked back into the castle because he wanted to fight. His friends came in support. To be honest, I’m not certain how all four of them managed it. At present, there’s only one hidden passage in or out of this castle. It’s through the Hog’s Head. I’m sure the last few nights were chaotic in Hogsmeade. I can see one or two of them slipping through unnoticed, but all four of them – they must’ve had impeccable timing.”

“I’m not blaming you, or anyone else, Professor. I was a student here myself not too very long ago. I did a fair amount of my own sneaking about. Finding ways in and out of this castle undetected seemed to be something of a rite of passage; especially for the boys.”

“I was a student here long before you were, Minister. I can tell you that the girls do just as much sneaking about as the boys, though usually for slightly different reasons.”

“Oh?”

“There’s an exception to every rule, but usually, with regard to junior students, the boys sneak around making mischief that is, for the most part, harmless. Other reasons might include a perceived slight to their sense of honor, or a desire to prove something, as was the case with the young Mr. Thorne and his friends. The younger girls, at least the few that I spent time with while I was attending school here, usually only resorted to sneaking about to avoid embarrassment - If they had a situation or a problem they didn’t want their classmates to know about.”

Shacklebolt grins and studies her profile with a curiously raised eyebrow. “Maybe it’s wrong of me, Professor, but somehow I just can’t picture you prowling about this castle late at night. Not as a girl. I know you did your fair share of reconnaissance for the Order but…”

“Just picture me obsessing over OWL’s and falling asleep in the library late at night and then getting caught on my way back to the dormitories. Or slipping out to the pitch at midnight to practice quidditch without anyone watching me because I wasn’t yet confident in my ability to flawlessly execute one maneuver or another, and I had to make sure that I nailed it before the next big match. Dumbledore caught me out of bed more times than I care to admit.”

Shacklebolt laughs. “That’s right! I forgot about that. He was the transfiguration teacher before you. You must have been introduced to him when you were quite young.”

“I met Dumbledore at the age of 11. The same age a lot of children meet…” She clears her throat and corrects herself. “met Dumbledore.”

Shacklebolt nods his understanding. “It’s hard to think of him in the past tense.” You two knew each other a lot longer than most of us think about. You must’ve been his star pupil.”

Shifting focus away from herself, she turns it back on him. “Of course, when the students get a little older, the boys and girls start sneaking around together - as I’m sure you will recall.”

“Oh, come on, Professor! You never sneaked out to the clock tower courtyard at 2:00 AM to meet a boy for a little harmless snogging? Not even once?”

She raises an eyebrow, making him feel like the student he used to be. “If I did, Mr. Shacklebolt, what makes you think I would tell you about it?”

“I wouldn’t tell a soul.”

“As you pointed out, I did my fair share of sleuthing for the Order. One thing I learned from all that slinking about is, ‘Don’t volunteer information unnecessarily.’ Knowing when to close your mouth can save your life.”

Arriving at her office on the first floor, Shacklebolt opens the door and waits for both she and McKinnon to pass through before stepping in and closing the door behind himself. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“I won’t.” McGonagall assures as she steps around behind her desk with her left hand outstretched, reaching for the doorknob at the cloaked entrance to her private quarters the instant before it reveals itself. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me for just two minutes...”

No sooner than she’s over the threshold with the door soundly latched behind herself, McGonagall struggles, reaching around behind her back with her left arm, trying to release one of the patches of Velcro that effectively immobilizes her right shoulder. Giving in rather quickly, for the sake of expediency, she points her wand and whispers, “Relashio.”

The sling falls away and she catches it, and leaves it hanging on the doorknob before she strips down to her shift with only the mere flick of her wand. She then relocates her soiled and discarded clothing to the laundry hamper inside her private lavatory. Stepping quickly beyond her sitting room, into the privacy of her small bedroom, she selects fresh attire from her armoire. Carrying it into the powder room, she hangs the ensemble on the conveniently placed hook on the back of the door, and steps to the mirror. 

Taking in her battered and dirty appearance, she cringes. Longing for a proper bath, but knowing she hasn’t the time at present, she uses a freshening spell to clear away all traces of dirt and grime, both from her body, and from the hem of her shift. Muttering only to herself, she queries, “How in the world did I manage to get this much dirt under two layers of clothing?”

Next, she touches the right side of her own rib cage with tentative fingers. Wincing at her own tender touch, she aims her wand again and says quietly, “Emendo Ossa.”

Her broken ribs shift and grind together, clacking softly as they reconnect with a sharp flash of pain that steals away her next several breaths and leaves her staring at her own reflection in muted shock for several long seconds. After the mind-numbing stitch in her side begins to abate, or at least fade to a much more manageable degree, she pulls a fresh washcloth from the drawer in the vanity intent on soaking it with warm water from the tap but, when nothing happens, it reminds her that the water has been turned off. Using her wand, to add a little warm water to the cloth, she at least takes the moment necessary to properly wash her face and neck. Using another spell, she silently and quickly uncoils the knot of hair resting at the nape of her neck. Letting it fall to its full length, she magically whisks away any traces of dust, dirt, grime, or blood and then returns it to its previous style. With yet another wave of her wand, she dons the fresh clothing - a navy dress made of soft stretchy fabric that isn’t too form-fitting and therefore will not restrict the movements of her bruised body in any way. Although it’s one of her favorites, the dress is normally reserved for casual weekends when she doesn’t spend time teaching or otherwise interacting with the students. She mends her tattered stockings before leaving the vanity to return to the armoire where she selects the shoes meant to accompany the dress. After stepping into them, she bypasses a sleeveless emerald-colored robe knowing that with her badly bruised face, her signature color will give her a sallow sickly pallor. Therefore, she chooses one in dark red and slips into it very slowly; trying not to move her right shoulder or twist at the waist any more than she absolutely must. From her jewelry box, she selects a simple braided gold oval pendant and, using her wand, she pins it into place over her heart before returning to the door and using ‘Tergeo’ to cleanse the shoulder sling before sliding halfway back into it as she steps back into her office.

Shocked as much by the speed she utilized, as he is by the unobstructed view of her now clean but obviously bruised face, McKinnon blinks. “How did ye dae that so fast?”

McGonagall jiggles her wand slightly before sliding it into the pocket of her robe. 

He shakes his head. “I was married for 27 years. I’ve got four daughters, and seven granddaughters. That’s 12 different women. Ah’m quite used tae waitin’ on women tae dae whatever it is they dae when they tell me ‘I jus need two minutes.’ Nae one of the lasses can change her clothes that fast. Not even the one that does use a wand.” He laughs. “Even me lad doesn’t move that fast.” 

Approaching him, McGonagall ignores his comment and says instead, “A wee bit of help, if you don’t mind. It’s nearly impossible to fasten this sling properly when you’re the one wearing it – even with the use of a wand. It traps my arm against my torso…” She demonstrates as she talks. “And prevents me from moving my shoulder.”

“Aye, ah’ve seen them. We use the same kind. Whut did ye dae tae yerself, woman? Afore I couldnae see all the contusions on account’a aw the dirt and sandstone grit.”

“I was having a bad morning even before I decided to crawl under 2000 pounds of stone. Careful…” She turns her back so he can fasten the Velcro on the nylon band that goes around her middle. “Snug, but not too snug. My ribs are in pretty bad shape.”

McKinnon nods, frowning in concern as he locks the band in place and then encircles her slender bicep in the band meant to immobilize her arm and shoulder. “T’wis probably closer tae 4000 pounds.” He says while watching her face for any signs of pain he might be inflicting. “That stone is heavy stuff.”

When he is done, she says a quiet ‘thank you’ as she steps around the corner of her desk and lowers herself gingerly onto her chair.

Taking their lead from her, Shacklebolt takes the customary place of a student come to visit. While, moving to an out-of-the-way corner, McKinnon observes the pair quietly, feeling like a forgotten bystander when McGonagall queries, “Shall we move on to more pressing matters.”

“Right.” Shacklebolt changes tacks easily enough. “We’re all going to deal with nervous parents for the foreseeable future. Let’s try to keep the focus on the fact that while some bad things have certainly happened, we’ve won the war. I’m going to make sure the school is okay.” Shacklebolt stops and gives McKinnon a moment of his undivided attention. “Thank you for your help today, sir. It was invaluable.”

“Name’s McKinnon, and I didnae really dae that much. Ah think I was just here fir moral support.” He points at McGonagall. “She’s the ane did aw the dirty work. She just needed herself a soundin’ board.”

“I’m Shacklebolt. Never underestimate the importance of a good sounding board. That is, at least in part, why I’m sitting here now - because I find myself in need of one, and I do hope you’ll forgive me for being rude but…” He turns his attention back to McGonagall. “Can we speak freely in his company?”

McGonagall nods. “One of his granddaughters graduated from Hogwarts three years back. He’s an old friend. My late husband trusted him implicitly, as do I.”

Nodding, Shacklebolt returns to his previous topic. “I’m already fielding owls from the Hogwarts Board of Governors. I’m trying to stall them to give you time to get your feet back under you, but they’re going to insist on a meeting sometime in the very immediate future – I’m thinking within the week. You should know that Lucius Malfoy is currently in holding…”

“Pardon me for interrupting. He’s in Azkaban?”

“No. He’s being held at the ministry. He’s trying to barter a deal to save his sorry hide, and no matter how vulgar I find the prospect, I’m getting heavy pressure to accept his terms.”

“What does he have that’s worth bartering with?”

“He’s offering to name names. In short, he’s willing to turn on all his fellow death eaters – give us names and information in exchange for a deferred prison sentence.”

“Of course, he is,” McGonagall scoffs. “and the reason you’re getting such heavy pressure to accept his terms is because, they probably all met at Malfoy Manor. So, he’s in a prime position to know who every single one of them is. He probably has useful intelligence stashed away somewhere on every single one of Riddle’s followers. It’s your chance to put 90% of them behind bars. If Lucius goes free in the bargain… Well, it’s what I would do.”

“Is it, truly?” I’m asking because I trust your counsel. Everybody in London falls into one of two groups. They are either afraid of me, so they hide from me; or they’re sycophants, bending over trying to kiss my grand posterior just to keep their jobs. I keep looking for a way not to let the oily son of a…” He catches himself and clears his throat. “Well, I keep looking for a way not to let him slip through my fingers. So far, I haven’t found one. At least, not one that’s going to instill the public’s trust in me.”

McGonagall thinks it over for less than five seconds. “Take what he’s offering. If it proves fruitful, let him walk. There’s not a decent wizarding family within 500 miles of here who hasn’t heard the Malfoy name. We all know what he’s done. At this point, if there’s anybody left who could be taken in by him, it’s because they want to be taken in. You’ll come out on the upside of the bargain.”

“That means you’ll be dealing with him again. I wouldn’t put it past him to insist upon retaining his seat on the board of governors.”

She laughs. “I am not afraid of Lucius Malfoy. Furthermore, I don’t think he will be half as interested in what goes on at this school when his son is no longer a student here. Draco is about to take his NEWT’s. He was never the most dedicated student, but he will graduate. Once that happens, Lucius won’t have reason to use his position with the board to get his precious son out of trouble. That gives me maybe four, or five years before Lucius becomes a grandfather, and then another 11 years before Grandpa can abuse his authority in quite the same way. That’s 15 years of relative peace. I’ll take it.”

“He still may be a thorn in your side, Professor. Surely you know he won’t pass up any opportunity that comes his way.”

McGonagall shrugs. “Better the devil I know than the one I don’t.”

“If the next meeting takes place before he’s released, it’s likely his wife will arrive in his place.”

Again, McGonagall shrugs. “She’s even easier to deal with than her husband. On any given day Lucius’ primary concern is Lucius – and beyond that, public perception of the Malfoy family. Whatever else Narcissa is, her primary concern is, and always has been, Draco. That makes dealing with her no different than dealing with most of the parents whose children attend this school.”

“Due to recent deaths at the hands of Voldemort, the board’s got a couple of empty slots that have recently been filled by people I don’t know; one Mr. Jennings Doherty, and a Ralinda Cosgrove.”

“I don’t know Mr. Doherty. We’ll have to get acquainted. I went to school with Ralinda. She was a year ahead of me.”

“Were you friends with her?”

“Hardly.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

McGonagall answers plainly. “No.”

“What I need from you is your assurance that, despite all that’s happened in the last year – despite all that’s happened in the last week – you’re not about to up and retire. I won’t hold it against you if that’s precisely what you want to do, but if I’m about to have to go searching for a new headmaster, or headmistress, I’d like to know that now.”

Taking a moment to choose her words, McGonagall inhales as deeply as her fragile ribs will allow. “Albus Dumbledore chose me to be his successor. I knew him too well to think that he made that choice lightly. He probably thought about it for years before he let anyone, including me, know about it. He educated me, he handpicked me, he groomed me, he equipped me… to do this job. He entrusted this school, its faculty, and its students to me. Last year, following his death, when Lucius Malfoy and his woefully misappropriated board of governors came in and removed me, and subsequently offered my seat up to Severus Snape, the man who murdered Dumbledore, I considered it the pinnacle of disrespect for Dumbledore. I marched myself into the new headmaster’s office on that very same evening – A Thursday evening - and I informed him that I was taking the following day off. I left this castle before the end of the workweek. I actually went home to the cottage I spend less than two months out of any given year in. For the better part of the weekend, I seriously considered quitting.”

The ex-auror says in his deep somber voice, “Professor, I’m sorry.”

McGonagall shakes her head. “I’m not after an apology. Certainly not from you, Mr. Shacklebolt. You were not to blame. What I’m telling you is that Thursday night, Friday night, and Saturday night, I had every intention of walking away from this place. About halfway through the day on Sunday, I remembered why I took this job. I remembered why I’ve continued to do this job from more than 40 years. Monday morning, I was back at my desk.”

“I’m guessing the reasons why have nothing to do with the coveted office at the top of Gryffindor tower.”

McGonagall smirks. “They do not. After the year I’ve had – after losing Albus, Snape as headmaster, the ministry falling, and death eaters overtaking this school - after all that, it should’ve been easy, but it wasn’t. Even Lord Voldemort himself couldn’t move me from this place. This is where I belong, and you, Minister Shacklebolt, are quite stuck with me.”

Smiling broadly, he rises to his feet and shakes her hand. “I’m glad to hear it, Headmistress, and I won’t monopolize any more of your time. Get some rest. We’ve both got a lot of work to do. I’ll be in touch in a few days. If I have any questions before then, I’ll talk to Flitwick.”

He sees himself out, and when he’s just beyond the threshold and out of sight, she calls him back.

“Kingsley.”

He leans back, poking his head in the door. “Yes ma’am?”

“You wear it well.”

He almost squints in confusion, and then, catching on, he smiles warmly. “Do I?”

She nods. “You most certainly do.”

“Not too bad for a poor kid from the dodgy side of London, eh?”

“Not bad at all, Minister. Not bad at all.”

Shacklebolt walks away confident in his belief that the school is in the best hands possible. Thus, leaving McGonagall to turn her attention back to McKinnon.

“What happened tae ye, Professor?”

“War is ugly.”

“Aye, that it is. Karolyn said that Voldemort fella and his demented sheep attacked the school. It’s plain enough that’s whut happened. Ah came fast as I could.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you, and although your presence here is not unwelcome, if anything like this should ever happen again, please don’t do that. I don’t want to offend you, but you’re no match for a wand. Especially not when the person wielding it does so with malicious intent. I’ve lost too many people I care for already. You mustn’t put yourself in harm’s way, Laird, especially not on my account.”

“That’s nae yer choice tae make, Minerva. How many people tried tae dissuade ye from going in there today – tried and failed, because ultimately, ye believe that the lives of the weans here at this school are more important than yer own.

“I know they are more important. I’ve had a full life. They haven’t.” She rises slowly to her feet, and beckons for him to follow as she steps back through the door to her inner sanctum.

Stepping over the threshold two steps behind her, with his gaze swiveling and his eyes widening, he gives a low whistle of astonishment. “It’s yer own private apartment!”

She hums softly. “What did you expect? Some austere threadbare room fit for an impoverished nun with faded paint on the walls, a single bed, and a lone cross hung for decoration?”

He squints, the corners of his eyes crinkling attractively. “Nae. I know ye better than that. Ah’ve been tae the cottage ye shared with Phin.” He gestures to the space around them and begins a slow circle around her small combination living room/kitchenette. Staying close to the walls, he peruses memorabilia hanging there just waiting to be discovered by what he surely knows is the extremely infrequent guest. 

There are photographs of both the muggle and the wizard varieties. Some of them forever frozen in time and unmoving while people depicted in others move about somehow appearing to be both idle, and yet, busy. Some portraits contain faces he easily recognizes. Others are complete strangers to him. 

He halts his self-guided tour of the living room long enough to skim through the printed word of a two-page framed article gone faintly yellow with time. Beneath the publication’s title, “Transfiguration Today” there’s a photo of a bearded middle-aged man with merry eyes seated comfortably in a luxuriously cushioned chair beside a small antique table just large enough for a reading lamp and a short stack of books. Perched atop the stack of books is a sleek young silver tabby cat. The accompanying article is titled, “Albus Dumbledore Successfully Trains Youngest Animagus in Centuries ” and although McKinnon doesn’t read it all the way through, much of the article seems to praise the accomplishment, with only a smattering of questions as to whether or not Dumbledore was wise to train a student as young as the one mentioned in the article to undertake the highly advanced and dangerous task of self-transfiguration.

Letting his attention wander elsewhere, he’s not the least bit surprised to find the McGonagall coat of arms mounted above the fireplace or the family tartan on the wall opposite the entrance. Nor is he surprised to find that the place appears to be entirely cat-friendly, with attractively exposed rafters overhead that are just wide enough for a cat to tread, lofty shelves that contain very few knickknacks, and certainly nothing breakable lest it should be pushed to the floor by either the curious or offended paw. The room is drenched in natural light courtesy of its bare windows, and plump cushions can be found in more than a few of the corresponding window seats; perfect places for cat naps in an inviting stream of afternoon sunshine. He also notices more than one obvious hideaway or shadowy little cubbyhole, along with multiple cat trees, feline friendly plants, and scratching posts - all of it meant to accommodate and entertain her large feline familiar, Wordsworth. 

He catches a glimpse of the foot of her neatly made bed through a door left ajar but doesn’t dare to venture inside the room. On the wall, to the left of her bedroom door he finds a shallow display case that holds a broom and an obvious sporting uniform of some kind.

Having given it only a small fraction of his attention upon entry, He turns his gaze to the self-playing harp positioned near one of the window seats and scratches his beard curiously when he realizes that the instrument is mid-chord. “Minerva…” He points. “That thing’s playing itself!”

Settling herself into an antique high-backed sofa and arranging pillows to accommodate her aches and pains, McGonagall nods. “It usually does.”

“But how?”

She declares dryly, as though it should be obvious to him, “Laird, it’s enchanted.”

“You can do that?”

Not bragging, she shrugs and declares plainly. “I can do almost anything I choose.”

Stepping toward it, McKinnon reaches out intent on strumming the strings of the harp only to draw back the fingers of his good hand suddenly when the harp stops its soft, delightful melody and issues a jarring, blatantly reproachful chord.

“I think it’s a wee bit angry with me.”

McGonagall almost smiles. “Then don’t touch it.”

Careful not to make the mistake again, McKinnon walks around the instrument, studying it from every possible angle. “Ye need ane at the cottage.”

She shakes her head. “Elphinstone didn’t care for it. It put him to sleep.”

Joining her on the sofa, he chuckles. “The man used tae listen tae the cello. Talk about music that will put ye tae sleep!”

“Agreed, but music resonates differently with every person. The victrola is at the cottage, the harp is here. It was an easy compromise to make.”

I like this space. It’s small, but it’s pure braw. There’s even a fireplace.”

“Well, of course there’s a fireplace, Laird. It’s a centuries-old castle. Like most castles, it’s drafty, and it gets cold at night. There’s one in the bedroom too.”

“I wondered how ye could stay here for nearly 10 months out of the year, only coming home fir the occasional weekend. It makes more sense now. Though this old stone floor has got to be hard on the joints, not to mention, the feet.”

She rises stiffly to her feet and crosses her small sitting area and takes a dusty bottle down from an inlaid shelf. “I’m used to these old stone floors. I’ve been walking on them for more than 2/3 my life. Care for a wee dram?”

He shrugs. “As long as ye dinnae go having an attack of conscience and telling me it’s too early fir that.”

McGonagall smiles. “You can have one drink. That’s all I’m having, ½ hour from now I will be asleep, and you will be driving your granddaughter home. There’s not enough time for a lecture, and even if there were, at the moment, I don’t much care to give it.”

He chuckles. “So, some blaggard and his insidious band of followers wages war on the school, attacks a bunch of wee anes...” He motions toward her bruised face as she hands him an unadorned cut glass tumbler containing two fingers worth of Ogden’s fire whiskey. “And whut? One of them decided tae knock ye around?”

Reclaiming her seat, she smirks and downs her own shot of whiskey before nodding. “In a nutshell.”

“Ah thought wands were the weapon of choice around here.”

“I had his wand. I disarmed him. He took mine as well, but he couldn’t get it to fire against me which, as you can see, both did and did not work out in my favor.”

“Where is he?”

“That hardly matters now.”

“It does tae me. I’d like tae have a conversation with him.”

“Laird, that’ll be rather difficult. Seances are more Sybil Trelawney’s department than mine.”

“He’s dead then?”

“That, he is. I’m afraid I lost my temper. I took his abuse rather personally.”

McKinnon laughs. “Well that’s hardly something fir ye tae feel bad about.”

“I didn’t say I felt bad about it. It was just a bizarre experience, that’s all. It’s not the first time I’ve come up with bruises or even broken bones. I played quidditch when I was a student here. In my final year, I was badly hit with an intentionally-aimed bludger by an angry opponent who was not very sportsmanlike. I fell more than 50 feet and was in the hospital for quite a long while. Although I’ll walk away from the events of the last few days without an extended stay in the hospital – well, Laird, I know how silly this is going to sound. It’s not as if I expected him to behave like a gentleman, but I just keep thinking about how incredibly rude one has to be to ball up their fist and punch someone else in the face. That particular indignity, I can honestly say I’ve never experienced prior to this morning - and that’s what I think about it. It was just plain rude! If I live the rest of my life without another such experience, that will be just fine with me.”

McKinnon laughs wholeheartedly. “Ye gotta kin when tae duck, Professor.

“Oh, no I don’t. I’ve seen two wizard wars. I’m done. I’m leaving the next one to the younger generations, and after this morning, I say leave the bar brawls to the men too. You’re better equipped for it.”

“Not very enlightened fir a woman who is something of a diehard feminist.”

“There’s a difference between being a feminist and being a dimwitted moron. Much as I might not like to admit it, there are a few things men are just better at.”

“Stuff and nonsense! Yer jus tired. You jus need a good night’s rest.” He studies her closely before he clarifies his statement. “Or, maybe two or three nights, but ye’ll live tae fight another day. Dumbledore was older than ye are noo, when he fought that Grindelwald fella.”

McGonagall’s eyes widen slightly with surprise. “You know about that?”

He nods. “Aye. Well, it would be more accurate tae say Ah kin whut Ah’ve read aboot that. Ah like history, but when it comes tae written history, it’s always stained by the perception of the person doing the writing. Ye have tae take everything ye read with a wee grain of salt.”

She nods. “Aye, but how did you get your hands on reading material about Grindelwald’s defeat?”

Laughing again, McKinnon says, “I sent ane of me wee lassies tae this school. “Dinnae go thinkin’ that ah didnae read every word of every textbook she brought home. Ah had to kin what ye magic folks were teachin’ her up here; didnae I?

McGonagall squints dubiously. “I knew you were a highly involved grandparent – but every word? Literally?”

He nods. “Every word. Well, except fir the divination stuff. Ah skimmed over a lot of that. Ah can’t hold wit aw that willy-nilly twaddle. Aye, some of it is true enough, but there are sensible reasons fir wye. Is nae aw crystal balls and tea leaves.” He points to the display case. “Is that whut the uniform was fir, quidditch?”

McGonagall nods.

“When she was at school, Karolyn enjoyed watching the matches, but she couldnae play. Lass is terrified of heights.”

“It’s not for everyone.”

“The article aboot Dumbledore in the frame; it didn’t mention ye by name, but that is ye, isn’t it? I’ve nae seen ye as a kitten a’fore.”

“It is. Da wanted to protect my privacy. He let me be present for the interview, but only on the condition that my name wouldn’t be mentioned. I was only in year three. Most students aren’t given the option to attend animagus training until after they have completed their OWL’s with high scores across the board. Thankfully, Vera Skeeter had much more integrity as a journalist than her daughter has. Dumbledore asked her to leave my name out of the article for my personal safety, and she honored the request without complaint.”

“Skeeter? That nasty woman who writes for The Profit?”

McGonagall smirks. “She’s the daughter of the woman who penned the magazine article about Dumbledore and me. You’ve read her work too?”

He nods. Karolyn reads the paper, or she did, a’fore aw the recent nonsense. Lately she’s started lining the bottom of her owl’s cage with the Skeeter woman’s photo.”

“How apropos.” McGonagall chirps dryly. 

“She comes oof very one sided, and usually the wrong side at that. She likes sensationalism.” He downs his glass of whiskey and grunts with appreciation. “That’s good whiskey, that is!”

“That’s fire whiskey. It’s made by wizards, for wizards.”

McKinnon raises an eyebrow. “Whut ye mean, for wizards? Ye lot dinnae like tae share?”

McGonagall tries to stifle a yawn and can’t quite manage it. “It’s not meant to be shared with muggles. Our physiologies, and therefore, our constitutions, are slightly different.”

With one hand against the back of the sofa, he leans toward her, scowling good naturedly. “Ah’m gonna let that ane slide, but only because yer face looks like ye’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight prizefighter.”

Laughing softly, she cups his cheek in the palm of one hand. “Thank heaven for small favors.”

Knowing it’s not the brightest of ideas he’s ever had, he leans in and brushes his lips hesitantly against hers and finds himself more than a little surprised when her response is not rigid and disapproving, but warm and pliant. All shyness and curiosity at first, with each of them making discoveries, the soft kiss slowly turns into something else, and McKinnon is just on the verge of seeking more when he feels her gentle retreat. 

“Laird?”

“Ah should havenae done that.” He says softly in apology and almost misses the lightning quick flicker of pain in her eyes as her fingertips brush her own lips in wonder.

She whispers, “You didn’t do it alone.”

“Nae, but the last time we did that, ye ran fa me. If ye don’t mind, Ah’d rather leave than watch that happen again.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“That is whut happened, woman. Ye kissed me. At first, it was just a friendly wee nip. Then it was a bit more than friendly. Ah kissed ye back… And then ye ran away fa me.”

“Oh, Laird. No! I wasn’t running away from you. It was too soon. I was running away from myself – away from what I might do if I stayed.”

He can’t help but chuckle softly. “Ye cannae run fa yerself, Minerva.”

She shrugs. “True enough, but I did put some distance between us.”

“Aye.” He nods. “Too much. Phin died. A few months later, Ree followed him and, because of that kiss, Ah nearly lost ye too.”

“I know. For a long time, I didn’t know how to face you. I was ashamed - of myself.”

That’s nae whut I wanted. It’s nae what I want noo.”

“I know.”

“Is it still the same?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s different now.”

“But - is it different enough?”

“I don’t know, Laird. I’m beyond exhausted. I haven’t slept for more than two days. I’m battered and bruised up one side and down the other, and even covered in dirt, dust, and sweat; you somehow still smell magnificent. I’m absolutely certain I’m not thinking clearly.”

He seeks out and finds the one spot on her forehead that’s not bruise-black and presses his lips to it. “Go tae bed. Ah’m going tae leave ye fir noo. Ah kin, yer gonna be busy fir a wee bit, but when ye have time, call me. Ah’ll answer.”

“And then what?”

He shrugs. “We’ll worry aboot that when it happens.”

*****

The next morning, at 4:45 AM, a 35-year-old muggle alarm clock begins to clang its shrill wake-up call and is silenced before it can rattle noisily for more than two seconds. Already sitting upright in bed, McGonagall stiffly swings her feet to the stone floor and begins the first of many long days to come.

Showered and dressed in well under an hour, she checks her reflection in the vanity over her dresser and straightens the clasp of her robes before she steps toward the blank expanse of wall between two dated family portraits. In one, a pretty dark-haired witch can be heard softly humming as her hands, somewhat inexpertly, manipulate a pair of knitting needles. In the other, a tall thin man in possession of both a robust red mustache and a cleric’s collar, wears a tartan kilt and smiles uncomfortably for the artist; his image unmoving and forever captured; frozen in time like every other muggle image.

As she approaches the wall between the two treasured pieces of memorabilia the door to her office materializes. Without giving this oddity a second’s thought, she turns the knob. As she crosses the threshold, Wordsworth darts around her, and leaping effortlessly, he helps himself to her chair.

Once the connecting door between her private quarters and her formal office space closes behind her, it vanishes from view as expected and, after lifting the cat out of her seat, she is behind her desk before 6:00 AM.

Looking around in dismay, she realizes that her office is still a mess, and it suddenly strikes her as odd that four, or maybe even five people, visited the previous afternoon and not one of them commented on the condition of her ordinarily immaculate workspace. Then again, Harry Potter is the only person who knows exactly how her office came to be in its present condition. It’s likely that everyone else simply assumed the room’s less than pristine state was a direct result of the battle. Ordinarily, after having magically made such a mess of things, McGonagall would’ve insisted on cleaning up said mess without the use of magic – a form of self-discipline; a personal reminder that she shouldn’t lose her temper. She inhales as deeply as her sore ribs will allow and, when doing so ignites a muted wave of pain in her right side, she decides to forgive herself just this once and sets the room to rights with an easy swish of her wand, restoring everything to its proper place and condition. With nothing left to delay her, she dives right into work.

After 1 and ½ hours of mundane but necessary paperwork, the cat in the room demands to be acknowledged as he leaps up from the floor and lands squarely in the middle of her desk blotter, dropping his most beloved personal possession into her direct line of sight.

Setting aside the bright orange toothbrush without being deterred from the writing of the letter that currently has her attention, she orders, “Wordsworth, go chase mice.”

She continues writing the letter until the cat fixes her with a mind-probing stare and yowls softly.

Placing her fountain pen on the desktop, she eyes the cat with momentary annoyance and demands, “What is the matter with you?

She half-unconsciously places a hand to her grumbling stomach and then rises from her chair, catching on. “Ah, yes, you’re hungry. It is time for breakfast, isn’t it? I am sorry, Wordsworth. Come with me.”

Returning to her private quarters, she visits the miniature refrigerator beneath the service counter and then quickly arranges a piece of leftover salmon from last night’s supper on a small saucer and tops it with a few bits of crumbled Roquefort cheese. Placing the plate on the floor next to his water dish, she listens to the cat purr throatily even as he gobbles up his repast with greedy abandon.

Shaking her head, she tells him, “You sir, are spoiled! Behave yourself while I go and get my breakfast. I have work to do today. I will see you later.” With that, she takes her decoratively gnarled old walking stick in hand, and heads down to the Great Hall.

At the head table, she leaves Dumbledore’s place vacant and instead takes her customary place, immediately to the right of his empty chair.

No sooner than she is settled into her chair, Madame Pomphrey approaches and leans in discreetly, whispering for her ears only, “You should be in bed.”

With forced patience, McGonagall returns her goblet of chilled orange juice to the table and, inhaling carefully, she keeps her voice low and level. “Poppy, I have been in bed for the better part of the last 16 hours. When this day is over, I will gratefully return to my bed. Between now and then, there are an untold number of things that are waiting to be done today. Since the responsibility for getting those things done is currently resting on my shoulders, I will thank you not to make arguing with you about my condition yet another thing that I must add to my very long list of things to do.”

As Madame Pomphrey shrugs and takes her seat, McGonagall pushes her chair back and, cane in hand, she takes the podium and clears her throat. As the clatter of breakfast dishes and silverware falls silent and all eyes turn her way expectantly, she begins, “Good morning, one and all.”

She waits for a smattering of response to rise and fall as she looks out over the half-filled room. “To our remaining students, their family members, and teachers, it is incumbent upon me to announce that Hogwarts will be closing before the end of term this year so that the castle may be properly restored in time for the start of term come September. As much as we, the teachers of Hogwarts, would like to see our hardworking students finish out the current school year, at present, I am afraid that is simply not possible. As of this morning, all damaged and unstable areas of the castle have been roped off. Please, for your own safety, do not venture into these areas. Tomorrow, the restoration of Hogwarts Castle will officially begin, and with the castle in its present condition, it is simply unwise to try to continue classes. As such, all regularly occurring end of the year exams have been canceled. NEWT’s for our students in their final year here at Hogwarts will be held in six weeks’ time at a location yet to be determined. You will be notified of the date, time, and location of the exams by owl once the location is set. To all of our students who will be returning next fall, we will see you, hopefully well rested from your summer holidays and ready to return to work, on September 1. The Hogwarts Express will be leaving today at 1:00 PM for anyone who does not have a parent or guardian already here and is in need of transportation home. Please be certain to pack your belongings carefully. As the castle will be undergoing restoration in your absence, any items left behind will likely be lost.”

McGonagall pauses for a shallow breath before continuing, and in the interim, not a sound is made. “To each of you who stood and fought so selflessly in the battle for Hogwarts, my only words are, thank you and God bless you. In reverence of their sacrifice and out of respect for all those who fell, I ask each of you who is here with us this morning, and physically able to do so, to please rise to your feet for a much-deserved moment of silence.”

After the momentary noise of every person in the room coming to their feet, the Great Hall falls as silent as a tomb for not just the requested moment, but for an uninterrupted span of five full minutes.

Then, someone coughs, and people somberly return to the food on their plates. McGonagall leaves them to it, not daring to interrupt again until she is through with her own meal at which point she stands, walks to the edge of the dais and announces, “As you all leave today, in the Entrance Hall, on the wall to the left of the front doors you will find a list meant to contain the names of all who have been lost. Students, family members, everyone, please check this list carefully. If you lost someone whose name is not already on this list, please come find me or any other teacher here at Hogwarts to let us know. In September at the start of the term, a plaque in memory of all those who have been lost will be unveiled in the Entrance Hall. We do not wish to exclude anyone who deserves this honor. For any student or parent who wishes to see me, for any reason, before leaving today, I will be in my office, here on the ground floor of the castle all morning. Thank you, and safe travels everyone.”

Neville Longbottom rises to his feet. “Professor, before you go…”

“Yes, Mr. Longbottom, what is it?”

“Some of us were wondering. Well… where’s Harry gone off to?”

“Mr. Potter left here early this morning.”

Ernie McMillan stands up. “But, Harry’s not in some sort of trouble, is he?”

McGonagall inhales slowly. “Of course not, why would you ask that?”

“Someone said they saw him leaving with the new minister. Given the way the ministry’s been behaving of late, we just want to make sure Harry’s alright.”

Hermione rises, taking hold of Ron’s hand and pulling him to his feet beside her. “Everyone can relax. Harry isn’t in trouble. He went with Minister Shacklebolt voluntarily to offer condolences to some of the family members of the people who died. We don’t know exactly when, but he will be back soon. He’s going to help restore the castle.”

“Oh, that’s good, then.”

Justin Finch Fletchley raises his own hand as he puts down his coffee mug. “Is Harry going to be an auror now?”

Seamus Finnegan laughs. “Going to be? Mate, I think he already is one… Talk about a dark wizard catcher!”

The Great Hall explodes with a thunderous round of laughter, cheering, and whistling.

McGonagall waits impatiently for the din to die down slightly. When she can be heard over the noise, she clears her throat. “Harry Potter’s precise whereabouts at this moment are his own business. All I can tell you for certain, other than the fact that he is, as Miss Granger stated, expected to return; is that Mr. Potter has left the building.”

Several people chuckle. “If you would like more information than that, I will remind you all that Harry Potter is no longer a student at this school. He is of age, and free to make his own decisions about his future. Whether he will choose to undergo the necessary training to become an auror remains to be seen. No matter what path he chooses, I certainly hope that - as I do - you will all wish him well.”

Luna Lovegood struggles to rise to her feet and props herself up on wooden crutches, heavily favoring her thickly bandaged left leg. “Professor, I know that most of us are leaving here for the last time today. I’d like to know, once the castle is restored, what will become of Hogwarts? I heard what you said a few minutes ago about the start of next term, but some people are saying that the board of governors might not allow the school to reopen. That after what happened, parents aren’t going to want to send their children here to be taught.”

“What?” The collective cry goes up among the students as they all take turns turning to look at each other.

Neville is back on his feet. “Professor, we cannot let that happen! We cannot let them close the school. If that happens it’ll be like Voldemort took Hogwarts with him when he went.”

“Yeah! That’s right! That can’t happen! No way!” Several people shout, all of them talking at the same time, their voices overlapping.

With her mended shoulder in a sling, McGonagall is only able to raise one hand into the air, and after that, her protesting ribs will not allow her to draw breath deeply enough to be heard over the boisterous protests of her students. Seeking assistance, she turns her gaze to Hagrid and simply raises an eyebrow.

Pushing his chair back noisily, Hagrid comes to his feet. Towering above everyone else in the room, he roars, “Oy! You lot!”

Several people duck their heads in response as if they expect to be swooped down upon. More than a few people cover their ears, wincing in protest; but the room does fall utterly silent.

Hagrid continues. “Well now, that’s better! Id’nit? The headmistress of yer school is talkin’ to ye. Ain’t she? I reckon ye all best close your mouths and open yer ears!”

When all eyes in the room turn her way again, McGonagall nods appreciatively. “Thank you. I had several owls yesterday from the board of governors, a multitude of frightened parents, along with three separate communications from the undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. There are a few people on the board who are questioning whether or not the school should remain open.” She pats the air when the noise level begins to rise again. “You should know that those who are asking such questions are outnumbered by the people who do not see any benefit to permanently closing the doors of Hogwarts. What has happened here in the last few days could have happened anywhere. The students of this school, both present and future, should not be punished for something that was entirely beyond their control, and I am telling that to anyone who has the temerity and the good sense to listen to me, whether they want to hear it or not. At this point in time, I do not foresee the school closing; not permanently. The current Minister of Magic is a sensible man. I do not believe he would allow such a travesty to occur. So, please, now is not the time for you to worry about such things. You should go home and be with your family and friends. That is where each of you is most needed today.”

Seated once again, Luna raises her hand, avoiding the trouble of coming to her feet. “If the school does reopen, who’s going to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Potions?”

McGonagall almost chuckles. “Miss Lovegood, one problem at a time, please. Before I worry about filling teaching posts, I must first have accessible classrooms for teachers to use. That is a problem for another day.”

Seamus speaks up again. “I’ll bet nobody’s going to want to teach either class after Snape!” He turns in his seat and spits on the floor.

“Seamus Finnegan!” McGonagall glowers. “When in my presence, you will conduct yourself with a little more dignity - a little more decorum! You will never again treat any educator with such blatant disrespect! Furthermore, you may consider yourself banned from spitting on any floor of this castle ever again! How dare you! Whatever your personal feelings about Severus Snape, it is a good thing you are leaving here today as a graduating student. I assure you, were you returning next fall, you would spend the entirety of the year in detention on your hands and knees scrubbing every floor in this castle with a brillo-brush for that vulgar display!”

Cringing, Seamus answers meekly, barely above a whisper, “Yes ma’am.”

*****

“Hermione, there you are!” Ron catches up to her in the transfiguration courtyard and doubles over, breathing hard. “I’ve been looking all over!”

“What for?”

“Hope you’re packed. We’re ready to go?”

“We?”

“Mum, Dad, me, and the rest of the ginger brood.”

“Oh, yes, I am packed, but listen Ron…”

“Well then, hurry up! I want to get to the burrow before lunch. I’m hungry.”

“Ron, you just had breakfast less than 3 hours ago.”

Ron shrugs. “What’s that got to do with anything. By the time Mum gets lunch on the table…”

She smiles. “Did Fred and George put an undetectable extension charm on your stomach when you were a baby?”

“Nah!” Ron pauses momentarily, looking concerned as if he’s actually considering the likelihood of such an event. “Don’t think so. I’m not getting fat, am I?” He touches his own stomach self-consciously.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Relax, I’m not calling you fat! If they put an undetectable extension charm on your stomach, it would be ‘undetectable.’ Wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah, right! Anyway, come on!”

“I’ve got to go to McGonagall’s office first.”

“What for?”

Hermione shrugs. “She sent me a note. She wants to talk to me.”

“On the last day? What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. Honestly, Ron? Haven’t you ever talked to a teacher when you weren’t in trouble?”

Ron squints. “Not if I could help it.”

“Well, I’m on my way to talk to her now, and I’m not coming…”

“Well, hurry up… Hang on! What do you mean, you’re not coming?”

She sighs patiently. “I’m not coming with you to the burrow today.”

Ron suddenly looks worried. “Why not?”

Hermione touches his arm gently. “I’m going to Australia.”

Ron’s mouth falls open. “Whoa. Okay. I wasn’t expecting that, but just let me tell Mum and Dad. I’ll come with you.”

“No, Ron. I’m sorry, you can’t. I need to go by myself.”

“Why?” He whispers, looking like a dog that’s just been scolded for soiling the rug.

“My parents are in Australia, remember? I’m going to go get them and lift the memory charm. Once they know who they are again, once they remember me… They’re going to want to know why I did that to them. I’m going to have to explain everything, and I think it would be easier on my own.”

“Oh.” He looks a bit relieved. “Yeah, okay, I can understand that, but you’re just going to apparate off to Australia, by yourself?

She smiles. “I’m seventeen, and I’m a witch. Plus, Voldemort is dead. The death eaters aren’t looking for me anymore. I can handle it.”

“But, by yourself, in a foreign country? What if something bad happens… You know, like normal everyday bad stuff?”

Hermione laughs. “I’m looking forward to it!”

Ron grins. “You really are mental.”

“I am not. After what we’ve been through, normal everyday bad stuff will be a breeze. Go home. I’ll send you an owl; soon as I can.” She kisses him full on the mouth, and trots away leaving him standing there slack jawed and shaking his head, but happy.

*****

Hermione knocks softly against the office’s open doorframe, and McGonagall waves her in. “Thank you for responding so promptly, Miss Granger. Please, have a seat.”

Hermione settles into one of the chairs meant for the professor’s guests, hoping she looks more curious than puzzled.

Noticing the peculiar expression on her face, McGonagall queries, “Are you feeling well?”

“Oh yes.” Hermione shrugs. “It’s rather strange walking around the castle without a hefty book bag on one shoulder. Somehow, I feel as if I’m…”

“Underdressed?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“I think, with the castle in its current condition, we’re all feeling a little out of place.” She clears her throat. “I’ve asked you here to talk about where you plan to go from here.”

“Well, as soon as I leave here today, I’ll be taking a long overdue trip abroad, but I’m guessing that’s not what you mean.”

“No, it isn’t. I mean professionally, but I highly recommend any trip that allows you a little rest and relaxation before moving forward, especially after the year you’ve just had.

Hermione bites her lower lip, trying to decide what; if anything, to say next.

“What’s troubling you?”

“I’m not going abroad on holiday. When I decided to leave last summer… Well, I sort of hid my parents so that if Voldemort found out I was with Harry, he couldn’t use my parents to get to me, and by extension Harry.”

“That was a wise move on your part. Although, I don’t imagine your parents were eager to comply.”

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “Professor, I didn’t really give them a choice.”

“Oh dear. I see. Well, however you managed it, there are sure to be consequences.”

“I know, and I’ll deal with that. Going with Harry was the right thing to do. I know that, and I can’t wait to see them.” Hermione blows out a puff of breath, causing the hair against her forehead to flutter. “Still, I’m not looking forward to explaining.”

McGonagall laces her fingers together thoughtfully. “I’m sure you’re not. However, the only alternative is to leave them as they are. Explain all that to them as well. Be honest with them. It won’t be easy, but I think you’ll come through alright. I seem to recall your parents being shocked the summer before you first arrived here at Hogwarts. They were not reticent, and only mildly resistant. They asked lots of questions and were receptive to my answers. How much do they know about Mr. Potter?”

“That he’s my friend. That Voldemort was the dark wizard who killed his parents, and that Voldemort was trying to return to power. I didn’t give them a lot of details. You’re right, they are receptive, but there’s still a lot about the magical world that they don’t understand. Try explaining to your parents that one of your best friends in the world can talk to snakes, and that he is somehow pre-cognitively linked to one of the darkest wizards to ever exist. There isn’t really a way to soft glove that. It sounds bad no matter how you say it. I couldn’t think of a way to make them understand that; yes, it was bad, but Harry isn’t.”

“So, you simply avoided telling them things that would likely lead them to say, ‘Stay away from that Potter boy.’ Is that it?”

“In a nutshell.”

“Well, there is not a teenaged girl - or boy - who ever existed who hasn’t done what you have. Though, I daresay, it is unlikely that most of them had quite so much to explain once the truth came out. You’re not likely to have a very enjoyable summer.”

“I know. It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”

“That’s very mature of you. Have you had any time to think about what you’re going to do with yourself afterward?”

“A little. I’d like to do something that would make a difference. Something that will matter. I don’t think I have the right temperament for teaching though. I’m not very patient, and I have a talent for saying things the wrong way… Especially when I’m irritated.”

McGonagall chuckles dryly. “If it were what you truly wanted to do, Miss Granger, I am confident that you could find a way to make those qualities work for you. However, it has not gone unnoticed that you seem to be rather civic-minded. Have you considered a career in magical law enforcement? Perhaps with the ministry?”

Hermione wobbles her head side to side ambiguously. “I did. Briefly, but that’s not really an option anymore.”

McGonagall’s eyes widen with mild surprise. “Oh? I fail to see why not.”

Hermione whispers as if she has something to be ashamed of. “Professor, I haven’t studied at all this year. At least, not if it wasn’t directly related to horcruxes; how to find them, procure them, and destroy them. For the last ten months, that’s all the three of us have done – unless it was listening to the radio to find out if anybody we care about had been imprisoned, tortured, or killed. I’d have to take my NEWT exams, and do exceedingly well, in approximately six weeks. I’m not prepared for that.”

McGonagall chuckles for the second time. “Miss Granger, if I were a betting woman, I’d lay odds on the fact that you are better prepared than most of the students who have been here all year. Go talk to your parents. Once you’ve done that, make a decision. If you want to take those tests, send me an owl. I will do all I can to help you prepare.”

Hermione stares; momentarily struck dumb. When she does speak, she asks in astonishment, “Why would you do that?”

“The more appropriate question is why wouldn’t I do that. I am a teacher. It’s what I do.”

“But, you’ll be giving up your summer too. I have no idea what you do when you’re not here, Professor, but there must be something.” 

“It will be a sacrifice well worth my time if it means I get to see a sensible person of your caliber at work inside the rank and file of the Ministry of Magic.”

*****

No sooner than Hermione leaves her office, McGonagall slips through the door to her private quarters, kicks off her shoes, and sets the alarm clock to rouse her in 45 minutes. Because lying in a prone position is currently uncomfortable, she settles into her favorite reading chair in front of the fireplace, places her wand and her glasses on the side table, tucks a slender pillow in between herself and the right armrest of the upholstered wingback recliner, drapes a hand-knitted afghan over herself and waits for Wordsworth to join her. When the cat settles a little too closely to her right side for comfort, she gently forces him to the left side of her lap and closes her eyes, surrendering herself to sleep almost immediately.

After what seems only a moment, she is jerked from sleep by the insistent clanging of the alarm clock and she opens her eyes; surprised to find that Wordsworth has left her for the hearth rug, where he is shamelessly enjoying the adoration bestowed upon him by a friendly house elf who seems to have the fashion sense of a teenaged muggle girl trapped inexplicably in the mid-1980s.

The messy dark brown ponytail she wears is secured against the crown of her head with a rainbow-colored cloth scrunchie. Her bangs are teased and immobilized high off her forehead courtesy of copious amounts of hair lacquer. Wide plastic bangle bracelets half-cover her forearms in a shocking variety of neon colors. The dress the elf wears has been cut to fit her diminutive frame with painstaking care. McGonagall recognizes the material at once as belonging to an old set of bed sheets that she has recently parted with. 

Although the fabric had still been serviceable, the elastic in the fitted sheet had been stretched beyond repair with age. The sheet would not stay in place on the bed, and she had grown tired of waking in the morning to find her mattress half exposed. When she had carried the sheets outside, she had intended to toss them into the rubbish bin, but the small sweet-tempered elf had stopped her and expressed a liking for the material. Reasoning that bed sheets were not technically considered clothing, which the transfiguration teacher knew the elf did not want anyway, McGonagall had gladly handed over the bundle. Now, transformed into a tiny sleeveless dress with a pleated knee-length skirt, the cream-colored material with its dark green pin stripes and its pattern of tiny bearded irises probably passes for haute couture among the female house elves.

Yawning, McGonagall uses her wand to silence the alarm clock. “Benna, your dress is lovely.”

Startled by the unexpected alarm, the house elf jumps to her feet, squeaking in surprise as she clasps her hands in front of her waist. “Madame is awake. I hope Benna did not make too much noise saying hello to Mr. Wordsworth.”

McGonagall shakes her head. “Quiet as a church mouse. I wouldn’t have known you were here at all if the alarm clock hadn’t rang.”

The elf smiles. “Madame likes my dress?”

“I do. That material looks far better as a dress than it ever did as bed linen.”

“Benna tried to use the elastic to make a belt, but it was no good. It didn’t have any more snap-back. So, my friend, Twilly made a belt to match my necklace.”

McGonagall eyes the wide choker of delicately woven glass beads nestled against the elf’s throat. A single strand made up of the same kind of beads, the kind young girls use to make costume jewelry, is knotted at her waist, and although the belt contains slightly larger beads than the necklace, both display an intricate alternating color scheme of royal purple and forest green. “If you ever decide to stop working for me, I’m sure you and Twilly could go into business together and make a tidy living as elf fashion designers.”

“That’s what Mr. Dobby told Benna too.”

“Mr. Dobby? The house elf that used to belong to the Malfoy family?”

The girl elf nods excitedly. “Benna was very much liking Mr. Dobby. Benna misses Mr. Dobby.”

“I’m sure you do, but Benna, we’ve talked about this. You don’t have to refer to yourself in the third person when you’re talking to me. Remember? You’re not a slave.”

The elf nods again. “I know this, Madame. I’ll only do it when we are at the school. It helps me. The other elves look at me strangely if I don’t. Mr. Dobby was very much braver than me. He wasn’t scared to be free. I would miss my friends if they stopped talking to me.”

McGonagall nods with unspoken compassion. “You can be free anytime you choose, Benna. If your friends stop talking to you for that choice, or because you’d rather speak as equals, they can’t be very good friends.”

The elf’s eyes widen in mild worry. “I like work. Mr. Elphinstone was always good to me, and so are you. You kept me on after he passed. You could have sent me to live with his sister. Ms. Urquart is nice enough, but I do not want to leave. Who would look after you, Madame?”

McGonagall replies dryly, “Oh, I would muddle through somehow. I promise.” 

“I do not want you to muddle. I will stay. I cannot go. I would miss Mr. Wordsworth too much. Cats don’t usually like house elves, but he is special. He likes me. He never bites, and he almost never scratches me.”

“Wordsworth likes anyone who feeds him; especially house elves who sneak sardines into his bowl when they think I’m not looking.”

Benna smiles with feigned innocence.

“This isn’t your usual time to pop in. Are you just visiting with the cat?”

“No, Madame.” She takes a tightly bound small scroll from the pocket of her skirt and quickly presents it. Professor Flitwick asked me to bring this to you.”

Slipping her glasses into place, McGonagall reads Flitwick’s hastily scribbled note letting her know that her afternoon appointments have been shifted to his and Professor Sprout’s calendars, and that they will only disturb her if it is absolutely necessary to do so. Grateful for the reprieve, she returns her glasses to the table. “Thank you Benna. Please tell Filius and Pomona that their kindness is greatly appreciated. I think I will go back to sleep for a while longer.”

“May I turn down the bed for you?”

“No, thank you. The chair is more comfortable for me just now. You may check on me this evening if you like.”

“Shall I bring your supper up later?”

“That would be very nice.”

Benna nods. “I will go now so Madame can rest.”

No sooner than the elf is gone McGonagall drops back into sleep. 

Sometime later, she stirs enough to realize that it’s dark out, and that Madame Pomphrey is standing over her in the fading glow of firelight. Sitting up straight, she winces in response to not only her aching bones but also to her stiff neck.

“Poppy?”

“Shush, don’t talk. That colorful elf of yours, just delivered your dinner, not five minutes ago. She fed Wordsworth as well. I told her to bring you something that could be eaten cold in case you don’t feel up to it just now.”

“I’m fine. I’m hungry.”

“That’s a good sign. I’m guardedly optimistic that you’re going to survive.”

“Of course, I am. I told you that yesterday morning.”

“Yes, I heard you, many times. You’ll forgive me for wanting to ascertain that for myself. My patients have a habit of underestimating the severity of their injuries. Get up and move around for a bit. If you get the blood flowing, some of the stiffness you’re trying to downplay will ease. But, don’t you overdo it. Have a bath, eat your dinner, and go back to sleep. And, not in this chair.”

“Lying down is uncomfortable at the moment. In that position, I wouldn’t sleep a wink. Sitting is better.”

“So, go prop yourself up in bed. It’ll be better for your legs, and for that ankle that’s trying to heal.”

Thin-lipped and quiet, McGonagall simply nods.

“Finally, some cooperation! Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“No thank you.”

Placing her hands on her hips, Pomphrey shakes her head. “And the stubborn is back just that quickly.”

“I’m not being stubborn. I just don’t need it.”

Madame Pomphrey glowers. “In your condition, breathing too deeply probably feels like cruel and unusual punishment. Having this conversation probably hurts, and you want me to believe that you don’t need help sleeping?”

Even in my condition, all that is required for me to sleep is to simply sit and be still for 45 seconds. I’m beyond tired. Tomorrow or the next day, I may need some help but for now, the wear and tear of the last few days is more than enough. If I’m wrong, I’ll have another shot of that fire whiskey over there.” She points to the shelf across the room. “One shot and I’ll be down in less than 30 minutes, but tomorrow morning I’ll emerge more easily from sleep than I would if I took anything you’re going to give me. One dose of your sleeping draft puts me in a mental fog for three days. I can’t do that, Poppy. There’s too much to be done here. The staff can only cover for me for so long.”

“We can cover for you as long as you need us to… But, do it your way. As long as you’re not outright refusing to rest, I won’t complain too much.”

“Stop fussing over me. I’m going to be fine, and I’m absolutely certain you have other patients to attend to, not to mention the fact that you look as if you’re ready to drop in your own tracks.”

“Pomona is going to take a shift in the hospital wing tonight so I can at least nap. Things will be much easier now that 95% of the students who were here last night have gone home. The place is nearly empty. If it weren’t for all the destruction, it would feel like the summer holiday was upon us.”

I’m afraid there’s not going to be much holiday in our summer. In the back of my mind, I’ve already begun compiling a list of things we must get done before the start of next term… and said list just keeps getting longer.”

Madame Pomphrey nods. “Speaking of things that will have to be done. I’ve made a judgment call you should probably know about.”

McGonagall rolls her wrist encouragingly. “Go on.”

Hagrid and I went up to fetch the petrified death eater from the Thorne boy’s locker.”

“And, where is he now?”

“Sequestered in the locked room reserved for infectious patients. Nobody else is in there right now. I have other patients, but all their injuries are related to the battle. There’s not a highly contagious one in the bunch.”

“He’s still here then?”

Madame Pomphrey nods. Sprout is working on procuring some mandrake especially for him. It’s out of season. I won’t use what I currently have in store. I’m saving that for our students who need it. I won’t deprive them to save his wretched hide. Somebody from the ministry came to get him today – a wet behind the ears, pock-faced lad by the name of Gantry. When he announced that he intended to take the death eater prisoner and haul him off to Azkaban…”

McGonagall’s eyes widen in alarm as she interrupts, “In his present condition… Petrified?”

Madame Pomphrey nods somberly. “He said that was what he intended to do. I told him…”

“Over my dead body!” McGonagall exclaims forcefully.

“Precisely what I said. I told him you wouldn’t allow that. He told me you didn’t have the authority necessary to stop him.”

McGonagall half rises to her feet, declaring archly, “We’ll see about that!” before Madame Pomphrey stops her with a firm a hand on her shoulder. “Poppy, I don’t care if he is a death eater. He’s still a human being. He cannot be tried in his present condition, and to lock him away in Azkaban with the dementors when he has no hope of getting away from them… If we allow that to happen, we are no better than them!”

“I know, Minerva. I know. Relax, please. It’s alright. I’ve already dealt with it. That’s why he’s still here. If we put him in St. Mungo’s, when his condition is reversed, he’ll have access to the public. Or before his condition is reversed, the public will have access to him. Either option is just bad. I told the lad from the ministry that I wanted to speak to his immediate supervisor. He told me his immediate supervisor was not available. I said, fine then, get me Shacklebolt. I want a word with him, now!”

“Did he inform the minister of your request?”

“Well, first he went positively green in the face. Apparently he finds the new minister of magic just the tiniest bit intimidating, but he did leave, and less than 1/2 hour later Minister Shacklebolt was standing in my office. I was halfway through telling him what you just told me about – if we allow that to happen – he didn’t even let me finish. He turned to Mr. Gantry and informed him that the days of locking wizards away in Azkaban without benefit of a proper trial were over. Gantry started to argue with him and… Well, you know Kingsley. He just stared the young man down. So, the death eater is still here. He’s in a locked room, and the minister called for some aurors to come and stand guard. Flitwick conjured up a small prison cell and magically reinforced it. Even though he’s petrified, and doesn’t currently need to be, the death eater is in four-point restraints. Shacklebolt insisted, just in case he’s faking but, I assure you, he’s not. His wand has been confiscated. As soon as we can revive him, the aurors will take him into custody.” 

“Nicely done, Poppy. Thank you. When you’re seeing to his needs, don’t forget that just because he’s petrified doesn’t mean he’s asleep. Even though he can’t respond, he may be able to hear you. Make certain you don’t discuss confidential matters in his presence, especially not the new security measures that are being put into place here at Hogwarts.”

The matron nods slightly. “I know, but it never hurts to be reminded. To be on the safe side, I’ll have Flitwick maximize the Muffliato charm around the room, and I’ll just avoid speaking altogether when I’m in the room with him. It’s not like he can answer me anyway. There’s no reason to talk to him.”

“That should do it.”

“There’s a staff meeting scheduled for tomorrow; 9:15 AM in the Great Hall.”

“I’ll be there.”

Madame Pomphrey steps toward the door. “I’ll see myself out. Sleep well.”

McGonagall nods perfunctorily and as soon as the door is securely latched behind the busy healer, she tosses aside her blanket and heads for the water closet. An hour later, after a steamy shower – she hadn’t dared to allow herself the much desired soak in the tub for fear she wouldn’t be able to get out again in her present condition – she uses her wand to dry her long hair and then settles herself upright in bed among a number of pillows. Pulling the blankets up to her waist, she waits for Wordsworth to settle into his customary place against her right thigh.

Nibbling halfheartedly at a bowl of salad greens, she sorts through a short stack of personal correspondence. Saving the envelope with the familiar crest emblazoned on the flap for last; she dispenses with the minutiae that always arrives either by owl post or the muggle alternative first. She pays bills, balances her account at Gringott’s, and scans the Daily Profit with all its frontpage sensationalism regarding the Battle of Hogwarts. ‘Are Reports of Harry Potter’s Untimely Demise True; or Are They Merely A Bid for Publicity? Rita Skeeter Wants to Know.” McGonagall snorts indignantly; tossing the rag to her bedside table before using her antique silver letter opener to slit the flap on the final envelope waiting for her attention. There’s no return address, but none is needed. The letter bears no signature, but the missive scrawled in a familiar masculine script is short and to the point. ‘Sean’s last will and testament finally made it through probate. Come see me.’

McGonagall slips her glasses off and stares into the middle distance, seeing nothing of her surroundings as she considers this succinct summons. After scarcely more than a moment’s delay she helps herself to a piece of stationary from the bedside drawer and, using her meal tray in place of a desk, she pens her own equally concise message. ‘Arriving early Saturday afternoon. What would you like for supper?’

She seals her note in an envelope, pens the mailing address clearly, and affixes a muggle postage stamp to the upper left corner of the envelope before relegating it to the top of the stack of outgoing mail on her night-stand. Then she gets out of bed long enough to carry her tray to her tiny kitchenette and leaves it for Benna to return to the kitchens when the elf makes her final round for the night.

Pouring milk into a saucepan, she quickly heats a cup of hot cocoa and salts it lightly. Just as she’s returning to bed with her preferred sleep aid, the antique phone on the night-stand trills softly. 

In response to this unappreciated late-night summons Wordsworth lifts his head and squints his sleepy eyes in an accusatory manner. Not accustomed to receiving late night phone calls herself, McGonagall frowns curiously before telling her less than curious cat, “There’s only one way to find out.”

She places her cup and saucer on the nightstand, settles back into bed, and picks up the receiver. “Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall speaking.”

She can picture McKinnon tugging at his beard in relief when he says, “Oh braw! Ah was expecting a switchboard, one that was probably answered by one of those little imps ye keep on at that drafty old shack.”

McGonagall sighs, and for the second time in as many days, she imparts, “Laird, they’re not imps. They’re called elves, and they don’t appreciate being mistaken for imps. They don’t answer phones either. They work in the kitchens and on the housekeeping staff. I have one of the very few phones in this drafty old ‘shack’ as you call it.”

“Why is that?” He asks as if he’s just thinking about it for the first time. “I thought magical folk preferred communication by owl.”

“We do, but as you know, we do admit muggle-born witches and wizards here at this school. We must have a reliable way to communicate with their families; many of whom find owl post a bit irregular.”

“Right then. Did ah wake ye?”

“No. I was just about to put out my lamp. You did wake Wordsworth. He is not pleased.”

“My apologies. Tell him I will have a treasure fir him the next time I see him.”

“Is it a new toothbrush? He’s just about chewed the current one to bits?”

“Naw. It’s a wee tiny bit more high-class than a toothbrush.”

“Laird, your idea of high-class is a wine bottle that comes with a cork as opposed to a screw top.”

He laughs. “How right ye are, Professor.”

“Did you make it home okay?”

“Dropped Karolyn off about an hour ago. Ah’m on me way tae Duncan’s Head noo. Be there in aboot 10 minutes.”

“Duncan’s Head? Why are you driving way out there at this time of night?”

“A’cuz the Lighthouse Board was gonna tear her doon, Minerva. Ah talked them out of it. Jus cuz she’s auld does nae mean she’s useless. Ah’m gonna fix the old lass up.”

McGonagall blinks twice. “How long did they give you?”

“Ah asked fir 18 months. They gave me 12.”

“Do you think you can do it that quickly Laird? She’s falling down.”

“Ah guess we’re aboot tae find out.”

“But why drive out there now? You can’t do anything in the dark.”

Ah can get a good night’s rest. In the morning, Ah can get started at first light, instead of having tae drive aw the way oot here first.

“You’re planning on sleeping out there, alone, in the middle of nowhere, in that creaky old ramshackle lighthouse?”

“That’s right. Ah already brought me a bed doon. Ghost stories dinnae bother me Minerva. If Duncan senior’s grieving wife really is walking the waves out there, the auld banshee is gonna have some company tonight.”

“Laird, I am not the least bit concerned about old man Duncan’s wailing widow. I am, however, concerned about the malevolence souls that still walk among us in human form. You’ll be all the way out there on your own with no electricity and no phone. What happens if someone decides to rob the place?”

First of all, Ah’m talking tae ye now, aren’t I?”

“How long before you lose service?”

He goes on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Second, there’s nothing out there worth pinchin’ and third, there are nae too many people in this world who will start a fight with a one-armed fella. Those that would, usually dinnae stick around too long after being punched in the face with a titanium grifter.”

“Alright then.” McGonagall winces as she touches her own badly bruised face. “Just be careful. Heaven only knows who might be squatting out there.”

He chuckles. “Tonight, it’ll be me. Sleep well, Professor.”

*****

The next morning after breakfast, Sybil Trelawney peers out from behind the spectacles that seem to magnify her eyes to an unnatural size as she complains in her most mystical voice. “I fail to see why we cannot start from the top and simply work our way down.”

Twenty minutes into their staff meeting, every remaining member of the Hogwarts faculty is gathered around the head table with their breakfast dishes carefully pushed to one end as many of them peruse the castle’s aged blueprints.

Firenze, the centaur, resists the urge to sigh in exasperation. “If what is below lacks integrity, it cannot support that which is above. Professor McGonagall has already explained this. All of the entrances have been secured. Next we must ensure that the foundation this castle is built upon is still sound.”

“Very well.” She declares hurriedly. “When might I expect the north tower to be restored to its former state of being.”

McGonagall clears her throat. “I’m sorry Sybil, but it will be quite a while. I know you’re anxious to return to your rooms, but after any damage to the foundation is set to rights, then we will repair any damage to the load-bearing walls. After that, the structural damage to the roof and the turrets must be fixed. Only then can we start with the sub basements and the dungeons and work our way up to the top to fix the internal damage - one floor at a time. We’ll all just have to make do until then. As soon as I’m strong enough to navigate the staircases multiple times a day, I will move upstairs, at which point, my current accommodations will be available, but depending on the amount of damage, that may not be possible any sooner than returning to your own quarters will be. If rooming with Pomona is a problem, then Professor Binns has informed me that there are several of the Hufflepuff dormitories standing empty which are safe to inhabit.”

“You are suggesting I take refuge in an underground dormitory?”

“Yes. One with a warm bed, an appropriately functioning fireplace, and a structurally sound lavatory; so that your needs can be met. I am not suggesting that you remain there indefinitely. It is only temporary.”

Trelawney sniffs indignantly and pulls her many shawls tighter around her shoulders. “It’s very disconcerting to the inner eye to spend so much time below ground with all the artificial lighting, and the ever-present sound of dripping water.”

“Then perhaps, until this castle is back in working order, you should try closing your inner eye, dear.”

“Then, however am I to see?” Trelawney demands in her most wispy voice as if McGonagall has just asked for the impossible.”

“Might I suggest you try using the two eyes located above your nose.”

Simpering resentfully, Trelawney returns to her chair. 

“Now then.” McGonagall continues undeterred by the senior divination teacher’s recalcitrance. “Mr. Filch, today I would like you to begin clearing a path through the debris in the corridors and stairways where possible. See if you can unblock some of the access to the upper floors. I know there are areas you won’t be able to access as of right now. Do the best you can. When you’ve done all you can, help Madame Pence to restore some order to the library so that she can begin getting a feel for which books and publications will need to be replaced before the start of next term. Pomona, I know you’re busy in greenhouse two, trying to coax some mandrake seedlings into producing out of season. When you’re not busy doing that, I’d like you in the kitchens to help the elves restore some order. Filius, in your spare moments, when you’re not tending to other duties, please begin cataloging the damage to the classrooms. We will need to replace all manner of furnishings, I’m sure. Hagrid, please begin work on the the clearing of the grounds. All other staff should concern themselves with repair work below the sub basements today – except for Firenze. I realize that our many staircases are not exactly centaur-friendly. You may see to the clearing of your own rooms here on the ground floor, and when you are done with that, I am certain Hagrid will welcome your assistance out of doors.”

Hagrid nods. “Ye betcha, I will, and don’t ye hesitate to call on me, if’n ye need help with anythin’ in your rooms either, Firenze.”

The centaur wordlessly bows his head in appreciation.

McGonagall continues. “If at all possible, I’d like to finish repairing the foundation before sundown on Friday. I have obligations I must attend to this weekend away from the castle.”

She rises to her feet. “If everyone has their marching orders for the d..” She comes up short when the doors to the Great Hall swing open wide and 18 unexpected people, all of them wearing black arm bands bearing the dynamic insignia of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, file into the room two by two with a barrel-chested blonde fellow obviously leading the way. “Pardon the interruption Headmistress, but we don’t.”

McGonagall blinks and peers at him from across the room over the top of her rectangular spectacles. “You don’t what…. Mister?”

“Have our marching orders for the day. “I’m Barnabas Blackbuckle, and yes, I’m new to the ministry, but AMRS is reporting for duty, Ma’am. We know what happened here wasn’t technically an accident, but Minister Shacklebolt tasked us to come. Thus, for the foreseeable future, we are at your disposal.”

“Well…” McGonagall clears her throat in muted surprise, “When Minister Shacklebolt said he would help us set this place to rights, I had no idea he intended to send me an entire squadron.”

“You tell us where you want us, Ma’am. We’re here till it’s done.”


	6. Insurrection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warm 'Happy birthday' to Minerva McGonagall who is 85 today. May she outlast us all!

* * *

Summoned by the ringing of her doorbell, Augusta Longbottom opens her front door and is nothing less than startled to find Draco Malfoy standing on the welcome mat. She tries to avoid frowning, but her facial muscles seem to have a mind of their own. “What can I do for you?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Longbottom. I’ve come to speak to Neville.”

“Oh, no you haven’t.”

She moves to close the door and Draco stops her with a firm hand, using only enough pressure to halt her progress, not enough to knock her off balance.

When she cannot close and bar the door, she switches tactics. Before Draco has time to react, she throws the door open wide and raps him sharply about the head with her walking stick as she begins shouting, “You’ll be leaving my front porch. That’s what you’ll be doing, boy! I know who you are. I know who your father is. I will not have you talking to Neville. He’s a good boy. You get yourself away from here now. Don’t make me reach for my wand!”

Draco has no choice but to back up for his own safety as she forces her way out onto the front walk with her cane poised ominously, ready to strike another blow if he dares to inch toward her. Seriously regretting the decision to come, he’s nothing less than grateful when he glimpses Neville through the open front door, rushing down from the second floor of the house and taking the stairs three at a time in response to the noise.

“Hey Gran? What’s going on? Hey, whoa, Gran! Stop!” Neville darts around between his grandmother and Draco. Spreading his arms and planting his feet wide apart like a linebacker, he physically blocks the old lady’s access to her target.

Augusta glares at her grandson. “Move boy!”

“So you can go to Azkaban for assault?” Neville shakes his head. “Sorry Gran, not gonna happen. I don’t want to see you in that place.”

“No son of a death eater is setting foot in this house!”

“I understand, but Gran, he’s not in the house! It’s time to ease up. His nose is bleeding. Don’t hit him anymore…” Neville eyes Draco with uneasiness. “at least not until we figure out why he’s come.”

Crouching on the front lawn and pinching his nose to staunch the flow of blood, Draco’s squeaks, “My nose! I think she broke my bloody nose!”

Holding one palm open to the air in case his grandmother decides to descend again, Neville reaches down with the other hand, grabs the front of Draco’s silk shirt and pulls him to his feet before slapping the other boy’s hand away from his face and roughly pinching the cartilage in the bridge of his rapidly swelling nose. “Quit being such a drama queen. You’re gonna live. It’s not broken. It’s just bloodied.”

Draco eyes Augusta Longbottom and murmurs under his breath, “Crazy old bat!”

Neville’s grandmother raises her walking stick high into the air again and Draco takes another three steps backward before he trips over his own loose shoelace and nearly goes down a second time.

Neville warns, “Gran, don’t make me tackle you!” Then, before the old woman can turn her ire on him, Neville turns to Draco. “Bloody hell, Malfoy! How thick are you? You do understand… Death eaters tortured my parents… They tortured her son… Until he lost his mind! And you came here? Two days after one of the worst battles in recent wizard history? Your pops is a death eater, and you turn up here? I should let her have you!” Breathing hard, Neville stops talking and simply stares at the blonde boy. After several silent beats in which he can only hear his own ragged inhalations, he demands, “Well?”

“Well what?” Draco shouts, still holding his nose.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I came because I need your help. I thought you might be willing but obviously, I made a mistake. I’ll go now.”

Neville squints in utter confusion. “You need my help? You are mad!”

“You know what? Just forget it?”

Neville groans aloud, knowing what he has to do, and hating it. Sighing, he rolls his eyes and relents. “Draco…”

“Never mind!”

“Draco wait… Come back.”

Halfway down the drive, Draco tosses over his shoulder, “If you think I’m coming back up there, you’re the one who’s mad.”

Deliberately goading the boy, Neville calls out, “So, you’re just gonna leave. You come all this way, you get your bum handed to you by an little old woman, and you’re just going to turn around, tuck your tail between your legs, and go home with nothing to show for it. Nice Draco. Way to persevere.”

Turning on his heel, Draco stalks halfway back up the drive. “I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was knock on the damn door. That crazy wrinkled old hag…”

Neville clenches his fists, looking far more ominous than he ever did at age 11. “Malfoy, you insult my grandmother one more time, and I’ll be the one knocking you on your arse!” He waits a moment just to make sure Draco is through blowing smoke. “Now, what is it you want my help with… I’m not gonna ask again.”

Deciding he may as well talk fast; Draco launches in with just the facts. “Dad’s in holding at the ministry. Mum is temporarily taking his seat on the Hogwart’s Board of Governors. They’ve called a meeting without notifying anybody properly. Their gonna show up unannounced and sandbag McGonagall. Because of what happened… I don’t know how to get in touch with everybody else, but I figured you might. They wanna close the school.”

*****

Port Melbourne, Australia. This is it. Hermione checks the shingle hung on the gate post. ‘The Wilkins. 419 Barrett Street. Dentistry and Orthodontia, Dental Office in the Rear. Hours of Operation Mon - Fri 9:30 A – 6:30 P.’

Moving her bag from one shoulder the other, she sighs, pushes the gate open, and follows the path around to the back of the house taking in everything there is to be seen along the way. 

It’s a teeming little oceanside town, and she has found the place much quicker than she thought she would – much quicker than she wanted to. Judging by the outside, her parent’s little cottage, just two blocks from the Beach Street waterfront, can’t possibly have more than two bedrooms. The unattached garage is barely big enough for one car. The flower boxes – Hermione had known there would be flower boxes - are thriving with multicolored blooms outside every visible window despite the heavy salt content in the air.

When they married, Wendell Granger had been something of an amateur horticulturalist. Years ago, his interest in the subject had waned and he’d moved on to other hobbies while his wife, who claimed she couldn’t keep a cactus alive before they married, had thought it a wife’s duty to at least have a passing knowledge of her husband’s interests and had, therefore, dived headfirst into the subject. Thus, before their second anniversary, she had grown herself an impressively green thumb. Her vibrant flower boxes with their impressive blooms had always been a part of Hermione’s life and Hermione cannot decide whether to be cheered or depressed by the knowledge the ritual has continued without her.

She checks her watch – 6:10 PM. Just in time to be the last customer of the day. It’s now or never. She rings the bell.

When the woman believing herself to be Monica Wilkins opens the door, Hermione nearly throws herself into the woman’s arms, and probably would have done if a pretty petite blonde woman hadn’t been in the process of trying to sidestep the female dentist. “Thanks again for letting me leave a few minutes early Dr. Wilkins.”

The dentist smiles, assuring her receptionist, “It’s no trouble Bridget. Tell your mother I said hello. I hope she’s feeling better soon.”

Hermione sidesteps, allowing the one called Bridget to pass through the open door as she thinks to herself, “Good. The fewer people in the office the better.” But when her mother smiles offering, “You must be Miss Graves?” she experiences a moment of confusion until she recalls that when she had called earlier, just to be certain she had the right office, she’d been on the verge of giving the last name Granger only to think better of it at the last possible second in case the sight of the name on a callback slip should spark some flicker of memory for either of her parents. Instead, she chose to identify herself by the first surname that came to mind that started with the same first three letters. “Yes ma’am. That’s right. I’m Hermione Graves.”

“Hermione? What are lovely first name. If I’m not mistaken, its origins are Greek. It means, ‘well born.”

Hermione smiles uncomfortably, “Yes, that’s right.”

The dentist eyes her with a moment of intense focus and then shakes her head apologetically. “Forgive me, dear. You’ve made an appointment to see a dentist because you’re in pain, and here I stand prattling on about the origin of names.”

Hermione touches her own cheek, feigning discomfort. “It’s alright. I don’t mind.”

“Yes, well, come on back. You’re our last patient of the day. You’ll have the place to yourself there’s nobody left today. It’s just me and my husband. He’s cleaning up after his last patient.”

Hermione crosses the small reception area with its tiny waiting room that probably looks like the waiting room of every other dentist office in the world with its uncomfortable chairs, and it’s out of date copies of Highlights children’s magazine and Redbook. Down a nearly nonexistent hallway, she steps over the threshold of an exam room that is just as familiar as the waiting room.

Clad in her white dentist’s smock, the doctor nods toward the exam chair as she steps to the small sink in the room and washes her hands for what might be the 15th time since she began her workday. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Hermione hangs her handbag on the conveniently placed hook of the utilitarian coat rack and then removes her lightweight summer sweater being careful to remove the wand stored up her sleeve as well. While the doctor is busy snapping on pair of purple latex gloves, her back still turned, Hermione points her wand and whispers, “Ad conscientia.”

Monica straightens her spine slightly, something indefinable about her posture changing, “Did you say somethi…” She turns to face her daughter with an odd expression, confusion seeping from every pore.

Hermione stands rooted to the floor with her hands behind her back like a guilty child.

Monica Wilkins is gone, leaving a very uprooted and disoriented Monica Granger in her place. “Hermione? Hermione. Oh, sweetheart!”

The next thing Hermione knows, she’s in a rib-crushing hug and blinking back tears as she thanks the gods. She did it right, at least it seems like she did. Memory charms can be tricky, and catastrophic if done wrong. She returns her mother’s hug with fervor. “Hi Mum!”

She hardly has time to inhale before her mother is calling out loudly, “Wendell, Wendell, get in here!”

It takes a moment of anxious silence and then Hermione hears the familiar sound of her father’s foot falls approaching rapidly. The door opens again, and he rushes into the room. “What’s the matter, Mona…” He stops short, wondering who the unfamiliar girl is, and why his wife is embracing her.

“Wendell, she’s here!”

“Who’s here?” He asks, just as perplexed as his wife had been a moment before.

“Wen, it’s Hermione!”

He stares at the young woman in his wife’s arms without recognition.

“Wen, honey, what’s the matter with you? It’s Herm…”

Unable to watch the confusion continue another moment, Hermione points her wand and repeats, “Ad Conscientia.”

She watches her father go to the same moment of blind disorientation. She sees Wendell Wilkins melt away as Wendell Granger resurfaces.

Startled, confused, and frightened, her mother demands, “Hermione Granger, what did you just do to your father?”

Yep. It definitely worked. Only her mother has that tone of voice. Hermione has never been so happy to be scolded in her life.

“It’s okay Mum. I promise. Everything will be alright now. I didn’t do anything bad. Not today. I just returned his memory. That’s all.” Hermione wrinkles her nose hopefully. “Right Dad?”

Wendell Granger runs his fingers through hair that is going prematurely gray at the temples; confused for a single moment longer before recognition sets his eyes aglow. “Baby.” He steps forward and folds his arms around his daughter somewhat gentler than his wife had done, but with no less emotion.

Feeling his arms around her for the first time in nearly a year, Hermione loses any hope of holding in the tears. “Hey Dad. How are you?”

“I’m good… Except I haven’t seen or heard from my little girl in almost a year. I hope you can explain that sweetheart because I’m really confused. I remember the last year. I remember moving to Australia without you. I remember not knowing that you existed.” With his arm still around Hermione, he turns to his wife, quietly seeking confirmation.

Monica nods but with some hesitation as a frown of uncertainty creases her brow.

Glancing her way, Hermione explains, “It’s coming back more slowly for you than it is Dad, but don’t worry, it will come back. I promise. Try to relax. It’ll probably come faster if you don’t chase after it.”

Wendell Granger gently forces his daughter to step back so he can look at her. “How are you? Where have you been? You look… The same, but different. Are you alright?”

Hermione nods. “I’m fine Dad. Even better now that I’ve found the two of you. I was afraid I might not be able to find you, or afraid that I might not be able to reverse the spell I cast last year.”

Wendell’s face falls, but his need to understand pushes him onward more quickly than his wife.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Monica asks with something dark creeping into her voice. “We let her go to that school. She’s taken what she’s learned and turned it against us.”

Hermione winces and begs in a whisper, “Please let me explain.”

“I don’t need you to explain.” Monica says, her voice hard and unnaturally quiet. “It’s quite obvious to me. You either wanted to go somewhere or do something you knew we wouldn’t approve of. So, somehow, you’ve used that wand - turned it against us in order to get your own way. I’m not quite sure how, but somehow you’ve manipulated us, controlled us.” She turns to her husband. “Wendell, I told you this would happen eventually.”

Wendell nods slowly. “I remember. And, I told you then, that our girl would never do such a thing without supreme motivation. Can we postpone the shouting, the accusations, and the disapproval until after we give her a chance to explain?”

“I don’t care why!” Monica shouts. She glares at her daughter. “There is no excuse. Not one! Do you hear me young lady?”

Stung to hear her mother say that she expected something like this would happen all along, Hermione inhales deeply and tries in vain to keep from sounding defensive. “If you expected something like this, you must’ve thought very little of me. I didn’t want to do it. If I had wanted to do it, then I would’ve removed your memories of the last year before restoring the previous ones. That would’ve been simplest for me, then I could’ve avoided all this and everything that’s about to come, but I never actually wanted to rob you of your memories. Doing it once was unbearable. I couldn’t do it a second time. Do you honestly think I wanted you to forget about me?”

When tears slip from her lashes, Wendell pulls her into his arms again. Of course not, but it was a pretty horrible thing to do. Tell us why. Tell us there is a good reason.”

Hermione’s next words tumble out in a heated rush. “I had to protect you. I had to go with Harry. It was the right thing to do, Dad. I didn’t have a choice. But, Mum’s right. I knew if I explained everything last year that the two of you would put up a fight, and I couldn’t let that happen. I knew you would want to keep Harry, or at least me, safe and not going with Harry was not an option. Voldemort was looking for him, if he’d found out that I was with Harry, he would’ve used you to get to me and by extension, Harry. That couldn’t happen. But there’s been a war, and it’s over now. We won. Voldemort is dead, but Harry isn’t. As soon as it was safe for me to do it, I came for you. I’ve missed you both so much. There’s so much to tell you.” She turns pleading eyes on her mother. “If you’ll listen.”

***** 

Harry isn’t really surprised when Andromeda Tonks smiles with mournful appreciation but, doesn’t even bother to open the cases containing the posthumously awarded medals for both, her daughter and her son-in-law. Very few of the people they’ve visited have given the awards their loved ones have received more than a passing glance. Harry understands. What comfort is a medal when the person it honors will never walk through the front door again?

He sits, perched uncomfortably on the edge of an overstuffed floral-patterned sofa cushion, merely because he was told to do so by their courteous host. No sooner than she leaves the room, Harry is on his feet again, pacing anxiously as he whispers to Kingsley Shacklebolt. “I wish she’d yell at me.”

Puzzled by this, Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow and whispers back, “What for?”

Harry shrugs. “Yell at me, or cry, or scream. She could do anything instead of being so… nice.”

“Harry, she’s a nice woman.”

“I know. I’ve been here before. I mistook her for her sister, Bellatrix. I nearly attacked her. They look a lot alike… Well, you know. They’re very similar, except Bellatrix looked, eh…”

“Less stable.” Shacklebolt intones judiciously.

“She was nice even then. So was Mr. Tonks. She’s lost so many people she cares for because of this war. Her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law… Even her sister.”

“I don’t know if this makes it any easier for her, or not. It wouldn’t for me if it were one of my siblings but, she hadn’t spoken to Bellatrix in years. Her family ostracized her when she married Ted.”

“Yeah, I know. Tonks told me. Bloody lousy of them. The Dursley’s weren’t exactly overjoyed by my existence, but at least they didn’t turn their backs on me. Who is she going to fall back on? Who does she have left?”

“She has her friends, the Order, and she has her grandson.”

“Yeah, but don’t baby’s take more than they give.”

“They take time, energy, and a lot of love. If you treat them right, and I believe she will treat Teddy right, they give a lot of that last one right back. Until he’s able to give her something more than just his love, he will also give her a reason to keep going.”

Harry looks at his shoes. “I wish I’d killed him 17 years ago.”

Shacklebolt reaches out and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder and waits for him to look up. When Harry does make eye contact he says, “Doing so likely would have killed you too.”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad. Not if it could have prevented all of this.

“Harry, survivor’s guilt won’t do you a damn bit of good. He’s dead. You’re not. Kick some dirt over his corpse and move on. Too many people died for you to carry his ghost around with you for the rest of your life. The best way you can honor their sacrifice is to go out there and live your life to the best of your ability.”

“I’ll second that.” Andromeda Tonks comes down the stairs, joining them again with a tiny bundle wrapped in a powder blue baby blanket decorated with white stars and nestled securely in her arms. “Here he is. Fresh and bright-eyed from his morning nap. Would you like to hold him?”

Harry mumbles something unintelligible and reaches out hesitantly, not at all certain he should hold the child Andromeda Tonks is offering him. He’s never held a baby before. What if he does it wrong?

“Well, go on then, boy. His daddy was a werewolf, not a glassblower. Just support his head. He’s not old enough to do it for himself yet.”

Harry takes the baby holding him in mid-air, placing his hands under the baby’s arms and using his outstretched fingers to support his head. 

Andromeda laughs at him despite the evidence of recent tears on her face that have now gone dry. “No, not like that. Don’t hold him like he’s a sacrifice to the gods. Snuggle him close to your chest; it’ll make him feel safe.”

“Yes ma’am.” Harry moves the baby boy who is not even a month old yet in close to his body, as opposed to holding him an arm’s length away, and cradles him in his arms.

Mrs. Tonks nods her approval. “There, that’s better.”

The baby squirms and wriggles a bit, flexing his tiny fingers and moving his arms about, but he does not fuss over being placed in the arms of a total stranger. Instead, he seems to study Harry every bit as closely as Harry is studying him.

Mrs. Tonks smiles at the pair of them. “You can sit if you’d like, Harry.” She gestures again toward the sofa in her small but cozy front parlor. “Would you gentlemen care for some refreshment.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” Shacklebolt returns to his seat, watching Harry watch the baby in his arms.

Harry gently touches the baby’s hand and grins when Teddy takes hold of his index finger reflexively. Nearing complete awe, he whispers,

“He’s so small!”

Mrs. Tonks frowns curiously. “He’s not small. He’s nearly nine pounds. He’s gained two since he was born three and ½ weeks ago.”

Harry looks up startled by her confusion. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean any offense. I haven’t spent a lot of time around babies. He seems small to me, but then, I don’t have any pictures of myself before I was a year old. I’ve seen pictures of my cousin, Dudley, on the day he was born. Even then, he was huge compared to this little guy. Dudley always has been rather… well… large.” He turns his attention back to the baby. “Hiya, Teddy. So, you’re my godson? I knew your parents and someday I’m going to tell you all about them.”

The baby coos and Harry watches, completely spellbound as the little tuft of turquoise colored hair on the boy’s head slowly begins to change, going from turquoise to a darker shade of blue, to purple, to brown, and finally to jet black before it suddenly goes from lying flat on top of his head to sticking out in all directions. “Well that’s kinda cool. I guess you’re gonna take after your mum, eh.”

“He does this every time he meets someone new.”

Harry raises an eyebrow, “Does what?”

Teddy’s grandmother smiles. “Keep watching. You’ll like it, I think.”

Harry returns his gaze to the baby in time to watch his blue eyes transition to green. The bridge of the baby’s nose elongates comically and then snaps back to a more appropriate length, and Harry can’t help but laugh when a jagged little lightning bolt shaped scar softly begins to materialize in the center of the baby’s forehead.

“Whoa! Hey, that’s impressive! Can he do animal faces yet, like Tonks?”

Andromeda smiles and shakes her head. “He will. Soon enough. He’s just a baby. So far, he only mimics what he sees, and because his vision is still developing, his ability is a bit limited at the moment. You have to be very close for him to see you, and even then, he may not see you clearly.”

“He can see well enough to at least try to mimic my scar. The hair isn’t quite right but, that’s okay. He only has a very little bit to work with.”

Harry grins at the baby. “When you’re old enough to go to Hogwarts, you’ll be able to impersonate people without the need of Polyjuice potion. You don’t know how lucky you are. That stuff is revolting!” Harry pretends to gag, and the baby smiles.

Shacklebolt chuckles softly. “Potter, as his godfather, I don’t think you’re supposed to encourage that kind of thing.”

Harry shrugs, grinning again. “I don’t think it matters whether I encourage it or not. He’s the son of my friends, Remus and Nymphadora. Plus, this kid is related to Sirius Black, my godfather. That kind of behavior is just in his blood.”

Andromeda laughs. “The boy knows of what he speaks. I can only wish that Sirius was still around to meet Teddy. He was great fun to grow up with. I’m nearly four years older than he was, but I had no brothers of my own. As my cousin, he sort of filled the spot meant for a little brother. I tried in vain to get him to behave, and he tried valiantly to corrupt me at every possible opportunity.”

An eager light begins to glow in Harry’s eyes. “Will you tell me about him?” He immediately backpedals, adding softly, “If it’s not too hard for you. All I have are… Well…”

She smiles sadly. “All you have are memories. I know the feeling. Let’s see…”

Harry watches her face come alive, and he realizes just how pretty she is as she searches her storehouse of memories. He can see something of the family resemblance in all three sisters, but Ted Tonks’ wife lacks both Narcissa’s haughtiness and Bellatrix’s madness until what is left behind is simply pretty, in a clean, uncomplicated, sort of way.

“I guess it would have been their second - no, their third - year, my last year, he and James. They weren’t bad. They were just a couple of clowns having fun together, making mischief and egging each other on. One day, just before midterm they took it into their heads that they shouldn’t have to stay awake in History of Magic if even the professor couldn’t do so. So naturally, when they got in trouble for sleeping, they decided to keep everybody else awake as well. The pair of them, they unleashed an entire crate of blast-ended skrewts in the classroom. Well, you can just imagine. In the commotion, nobody else was quite sure who’d done it. Magnolia George stepped on a skrewt in the midst of it all and nearly toppled headfirst down the stairs leading to Professor Binns office. I knew just who the responsible party had to be. I decided that, before somebody got seriously hurt, I would take it upon myself to scare the daylights out of Sirius. I sent him a phony howler the next morning at breakfast. Back then, the only thing that truly scared Sirius was Aunt Walburga – not that he would admit it. No. Not to save his own life. So, next morning at breakfast, there’s his mother’s voice wailing out of a howler envelope for everyone in the Great Hall to hear and she’s raging on about how if he doesn’t straighten up and fly right immediately, she’s going to come up and thrash him good in front of the entire school. Only, something went wrong with the incantation and right at the end of the howler’s message, it was obvious it wasn’t Aunt Walburga’s voice. It was only a couple of words, nobody else knew it was me. Nobody except for Sirius… And the fink ratted me out! Next thing I know I’m the one standing in the headmaster’s office, and Dumbledore is patiently explaining that he’s already spoken to Sirius, and that he is speaking to me only to give me the same lecture he gave my cousin. ‘It’s not nice to be a turncoat. Especially when the person you’re informing on happens to be family.’ I got the distinct impression that he was amused by our antics, but not by our willingness to give each other up. However, before he could finish his rather lighthearted lecture, the door to his office flew open and Professor McGonagall strode into the room. She was quite the sight - dripping wet, soaked to the skin, head to toe, and so angry she could hardly string two words together coherently. I remember Dumbledore exclaiming, ‘Minerva! What in the name of Merlin’s fuzzy purple socks!’ She just stood there perseverating. It took several seconds before she finally managed one clear, concise word. ‘towel.’ Instead of conjuring her a towel, Dumbledore simply pointed his wand and a moment later, she was dry as a bone. She straightened her robes, collected herself, and offered a prim ‘thank you.’ Naturally, Dumbledore wanted to know what happened to her. We both did, but not more than a dozen words into the story, I was shown the door. Over the years, I have pieced together the story courtesy of conversations I have had with your mother, your father, your godfather, and Remus. At some point; probably at the end of their second year, your mother, who was muggle-born, and as such, had a wealth of knowledge about things we knew nothing of, tells the merry marauder’s about a popular movie in the muggle world, The Wizard of Oz. I’m sure they all found it quite entertaining. Apparently, at first, they thought she was having them on. Over summer break James managed to see the movie somehow. He comes back to school the next fall, he tells Sirius that Lilly wasn’t joking, and what’s more, the actress who played the Wicked Witch of The West also doubled as Elmira Gulch the unfriendly, and overly pious, neighbor who didn’t care for Dorothy’s scruffy little dog. He then proceeds to tell Sirius that Mrs. Gulch bares a somewhat striking resemblance to a certain teacher at the school and that he’s bound and determined to find out before the end of the year if said teacher really will melt when doused with a bucket of water.”

Harry’s eyes widen with a mixture of mirth and dread. He covers his mouth in a fruitless attempt to stifle his own laughter as he shakes his head, saying in vain, “No! Tell me they didn’t… Oh, she must have been… So…” He can’t stop laughing, even when he notices that the baby in his arms is laughing with him.

Andromeda laughs along with everyone else in the room. “I’m only telling you this because you’re done with school. I don’t think the word ‘angry’ quite covered it. You didn’t see her face that day. She was nothing short of feral. The two of them, Sirius and your father, they couldn’t talk Remus into joining them. He took the high road, claiming that he didn’t need something to fear worse than he feared the full moon. So, Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee set out alone together to see if they could melt themselves a witch. Somehow, they rigged several buckets of water over the door to the transfiguration classroom, made the buckets invisible, and charmed the door to lock behind her when she exited the classroom. They were watching when it happened, but because it happened midafternoon in a crowded corridor… Well, you can imagine the melee. Students were in hysterics. Sirius and James escaped into the crowd, and because she couldn’t duck back into her classroom, McGonagall hiked up seven flights of stairs all the way to the headmaster’s office dripping wet with students laughing every step of the way. At first, she didn’t know who had done it, or why. I think that’s the only thing that saved them. By the time she figured out who was responsible, she’d had time enough to calm down a bit. I thought that when she figured out who was to blame, they would be expelled, or worse, annihilated, but no! McGonagall, she’s very shrewd. Somehow, she uncovered the truth. I told James that when she did, his goose would be cooked. He’d never play quidditch again, no matter how much she liked the game. To his credit, that thought did seem to worry him. On a Monday morning about two months later, she sidestepped your father on her way to the head table and, quiet as you please, she said something for his ears only. I was across the room at the Slytherin table. So, I didn’t hear her, but… oh Harry, how I wish you could have seen the look that came over your father’s face. It was beyond priceless when she leaned in and whispered, ‘I’ll get you my pretty, and your little dog too.”

Seated on the sofa again and laughing so hard his ribs hurt, Harry chokes out, “Good… for… her! God, they were Fred and George before Fred and George! You have to tell me. What did she do to them?”

For a while, she didn’t do anything. She just let them imagine the worst. She had both of them looking over their shoulders every day for more than a month, which I have to believe was part of her evil plan.

I’m sure all she had to do was listen to chatter around the castle to get some idea of who was responsible. When it was all said and done, rumor was that she was tutoring Pettigrew because he was behind with his transfiguration homework. That she plied him with biscuits, and that he spilled the beans.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me. Harry replies drolly, talking to the baby in his lap. 

But McGonagall was in no hurry. She bided her time. Gave them time to relax. Then, two weeks before the final quidditch match of the year, Sirius borrowed your father’s broom one afternoon to go and have a game with some of their housemates. James was busy serving detention for dropping frog spawn soap into one of your mother’s potions. Plus, he was trying to make up with Lily who was ready to gut him for ruining the same, absolutely exquisite, batch of forgetting potion. By the time the game ended, and Sirius returned late to the dormitory, your father was asleep. He had quidditch practice the next morning. He woke Sirius up searching for his broom and was horrified when Sirius informed him that the broom had been stolen the night before.”

Harry groans. “If somebody stole my broom… Well, I would not be okay!”

Andromeda smiles wryly. “I don’t think your dad was either. According to Sirius, he was talking to some mates in the changing rooms after their game and he happened to turn and catch sight of a small hooded figure making off with your dad’s broom. He gave chase. Apparently, he even attempted to stun the thief and was mystified because although he was certain he hit them squarely between the shoulder blades, nothing happened. Sirius was just as sick about the loss of the broom as your dad was. He knew what that broom meant to James. He promised he would buy your dad a new broom, but then Uncle Orion refused to allow Sirius to pay for a replacement, which James said was just as well anyway because the broom had belonged to your grandfather, Fleamont, and a new broom wouldn’t have the same sentimental value. Well, they searched the school in desperation trying to get anyone to own up to pulling the prank. The final match was getting closer and closer. The house cup was still up for grabs, and of course, they were playing Slytherin. For a while, they even though the Slytherin team might be behind the theft. However, when Sirius threatened to pound Lucius Malfoy into oblivion if he didn’t return the broom… Well, Lucius was scared to death of Sirius. If he had taken the broom, or had knowledge of anyone else taking it, he would have sung like a canary. James was practicing on one of the school brooms, and things were not going well. I don’t mind telling you, as much as I wanted Slytherin to win that year, I felt bad for them. The closer they got to game day the more tense things became. Naturally, the two boys started sniping at each other. Things came to a head, and one day they finally had an honest to goodness row out in the clock tower courtyard. During the confrontation Sirius let slip that it had not been a hooded stranger who had taken James’s broom but a sadistic looking monkey with very strange eyes.”

Harry squints in astonishment, wanting to make sure he heard correctly, he asks, “A monkey?”

Andromeda nods. “For a minute, I swear I thought James was going to pound on him, but since the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, Sirius was talking fast. ‘That’s why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t believe me. It sounds mad, but I swear mate, it was a bloody monkey.” Well, we were all sort of stunned when suddenly your dad looked as if he didn’t know whether to groan, vomit, or laugh. He shouted, ‘Merlin’s pants, Sirius! You should have told me this a month ago!’ Sirius couldn’t see how knowing that some creepy looking monkey had absconded with his friend’s broom and used it to fly off into the night had improved their situation. James just laughed. ‘Don’t you get it? What are you, thick? Flying monkey? Mate, the game is afoot, and we’ve got less than four days to figure out where that witch is holding my broom hostage and steal it back!”

Harry grins and bounces Teddy gently in his lap. “Oh brother! Here we go again.”

Well, they stopped fighting amongst themselves, and joined forces again, and they tried everything they could think of. They crept into her classroom one night. Somehow managing to get past the fact that it was secured with a new password. They found the room stacked halfway to the ceiling with brooms. Every broom imaginable, but not James’s broom. They sneaked into her office one night and missed dinner because they got locked in. They barely managed to escape out one of the windows before she caught them. I remember the two of them complaining they should’ve known it was too easy to get into the office. The door did not accidentally lock behind them. She’d enchanted it to do that. When they tried to gain access into her private quarters, they fell for their own trap and got drenched. Only, it wasn’t just plain water. It was water with some kind of dye in it. They both spent all night in the boy’s bathroom in the showers scrubbing themselves raw, because the stain refused to be magically removed. Their faces, arms, and hands were the same reddish pink color as radishes. They managed to come clean, but first thing the next morning they had transfiguration class and had a miserable time trying to stay awake. Inside, McGonagall had to have been laughing hysterically at the sight of them, but she never cracked a smile. Finally, with less than two days before the big game - James wanted to get in at least one practice with his own broom before the match - he swallowed his pride and marched into her office with your godfather standing right beside him. Sirius wouldn’t let him go into the lion’s den alone. The two of them fessed up to the whole sorted witch-dunking debacle.

Harry cringes. “Poor Dad! Poor Sirius!”

Remus once told me that he wasn’t really all that surprised when James reported that all she had to say when they were done confessing was, “I see.” They must’ve been standing there waiting for her to bring down the lightning. When she didn’t, they got even more nervous which, until that moment, neither of them knew was possible. So naturally, they both started talking fast about serving detention without complaint for half the upcoming school year, if James could just please have his broom back. I’m sure they were just babbling at that point. Sirius told me she just stood there and let them ramble on. When they finally realized she wasn’t scolding them or threatening to expel them, they stopped and she handed the broom over and informed them that six months’ worth of detention was not necessary, but they would both be scrubbing the ink stain off of her office floor. That they would each swear never to try to enter her private quarters again, and that she would forgive the entire matter if James would do her the courtesy of beating the pants off of Slytherin house in the upcoming game… Which, he did.”

Harry laughs. “He probably never played harder in his life.”

“Now that I think about it, that could’ve been part of her plan all along. Your father had a nice broom. It was much easier to fly than anything the school had to offer. James used to brag about that. Maybe he got complacent, relied a little too much on the broom instead of skill. After she nicked his broom, he spent quite a while using the school brooms. He had to work harder at practice. He had to actually put some effort in.”

Harry nods. “McGonagall would definitely do that. She took my broom once. For an entirely different reason, but…”

Andromeda nods. “Same result?”

“Pretty much.”

“She could have been bitter over having been made a laughingstock of. When she didn’t send them packing, I think they both realized they had made a friend for life. It was the talk of the school. For a few years after that, some brave and utterly foolish boy or girl would take it into their heads to try and outdo James and Sirius. A few aspiring students tried for a repeat of the witch-melting stunt – including Fred and George Weasley, I believe. No matter how hard they’ve tried to catch her unaware, no one has ever succeeded. To the best of my knowledge, James and Sirius remain the only two that have ever pulled it off.”

“Thank you for telling me about that.” Harry grins. I can’t believe I got all the way through school without hearing about it. Well, I do remember once overhearing some kids saying that pulling a prank on her would be fun. I have no idea if they had something like that in mind. I just remember asking them if they had a death wish.”

“You may have inadvertently talked them out of doing the same thing without realizing that’s what you were doing. They may have assumed you knew about it, being James’s son.”

“The very first moment I saw her, I decided she was not someone I ever wanted to mess about with. The look on her face that night…” Harry shakes his head. “You could not have paid me to dump even one bucket, much less several buckets, of water on that lady.”

*****

Having left the dental office in favor of a more comfortable environment, the three of them are seated at her parents’ tiny kitchen table, and the tea in their cups has gone completely cold. Her mother makes tea just for the comfort of routine. No one is actually interested in drinking it. Hermione’s father, who simply wants to understand why she’s taken the action she has, listens attentively to every word while occasionally putting one hand on his wife shoulder to stop her from interrupting. He says patiently each time. “Just let her tell it her way. Ask questions when she’s done.

When she is finally finished, Hermione inhales deeply as if it’s something she hasn’t done for a very long time.

Her mother is gray-faced and tight-lipped.

Her father, wide-eyed and fidgeting nervously, exclaims quietly. “You fought… in a war?” 

“Yeah Daddy, I did.”

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Were you injured? Do you need anything?”

“I’m okay Dad.” Hermione reaches out and squeezes his hand. “The last couple of nights I’ve had some pretty wicked nightmares, but all in all, I think I’m doing remarkably well for a girl who dueled Bellatrix Lestrange.” She glances nervously at her mother, who is suddenly across the room with her back turned and standing at the kitchen sink scrubbing the teapot ten times harder than it needs to be scrubbed. “I did it because I couldn’t stand by and let Voldemort take control.”

Angry tears of betrayal fall from Monica Granger’s eyes as she refuses to look at her daughter. “I don’t care why you did it. We should have been given the opportunity to say ‘No! No, we don’t want that for our daughter.”

“Mum, don’t you understand? If Voldemort had gained the power he wanted, if he had gained control of the wizarding world, I’d be marked for death. As far as he was concerned, I am a mud-blood! I am not saying I agree with him. He thought anyone who wasn’t a pure-blood witch or wizard from the oldest of family lines didn’t deserve to breathe. Anyone who couldn’t prove that they were 100% wizard would have been slaughtered. That means me. That means hundreds of thousands of magical people and squibs who were all born with absolutely no control over who their ancestors were. I could’ve stayed home. Chances are, if I had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation or any variation of it because, I would be dead. He was a homicidal bully with a wand. I had to fight - as much for my own life as for the lives of anyone else who wasn’t able to fight. I had to do everything I could to help my friend, Harry.”

Monica turns to face her daughter. “What’s a squib?”

Hermione almost smiles because she knows that the question alone means that at least her mother is listening. She joins her mother at the sink. “A squib is a person with magical parents who has no magic of their own.”

Wendell squints. “Like you, only in reverse?”

Turning her back to the sink, so she can see both her parents, Hermione nods. “Only, it’s worse for them. At least I could fight back. A non-magical person has a snowball’s chance in hell against an evil wizard.”

Losing a smidgen of her anger, Monica asks, “And, you had a better chance? You’re 17. He was what, 50 or 60?”

“He was 70. And usually, the older a wizard gets the more powerful he becomes. He was still relatively young compared to some wizards. Albus Dumbledore was 116 when he died last year.”

“Wait! Dumbledore is dead?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m sure I told you that last summer before I left. Maybe you just don’t remember yet. It’ll come. Give it time.”

“Who has been in charge of the school for the last year?” Monica demands to know.

“Death eaters… But I wasn’t there. Not until the battle.”

“Those poor kids!” Fresh tears fall from her mother’s eyes. 

“See, that’s what I’m trying to get you to understand. The death eaters, they were practicing the Cruciartus curse on first-year students – as a teaching method. When Neville Longbottom refused to participate, they used it on him. That’s the same curse that drove his parents mad. To this day, they are still in St. Mungo’s in the long-term care wing. I had to be there. I didn’t have a choice, Mum. All it takes for evil to prevail is for g…”

Monica nods. “is for good men to do nothing. I know. Who do you think taught you that?” She tosses a dish towel in the sink in frustration. “But I still don’t like it!”

Hermione chuckles. “You don’t have to like it. You shouldn’t. I don’t need you to like it, I just need you to understand, Mum… please.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” She puts her hands on her hips. “Are we just supposed to uproot our lives again and go back to London?”

“You can if you want to,” Hermione shrugs. “but there’s absolutely no reason why you can’t just stay here.”

Demonstrating from which parent Hermione got her eagerness for calling attention to herself in class, Wendell slowly raises his hand. When he has the attention of both females in the room, he says, “We’re gonna need a bigger house. This one only has two bedrooms.”

Hermione squints. “That’s okay Dad.”

“Uh…” He looks to his wife, obviously seeking her approval for something. “Mona?”

She nods silently.

Hermione’s head swivels as if she’s watching a tennis match. “What?”

Wendell clears his throat, looking more than a bit sheepish. 

Hermione sighs and motions to hurry them along. “You guys; spit it out. Whatever it is, it cannot be half as bad as what I just laid on you.”

Monica smiles for the first time since Hermione arrived on the doorstep at the office. “She has a point there, Wen.”

Wendell clears his throat for the second time, “Well, see, we thought we had no children.”

Hermione squints again. “I get that.”

“Your mother is pregnant… with twins.”

Hermione hesitates a single moment before her mouth falls open to form a perfect ‘O’ then, she asks quietly, “You’re not joking?”

Monica grimaces. “No. We are not joking.”

It takes Hermione another long 3 seconds before she starts to laugh.

Both of her parents stare at her as if they’re concerned about her mental well-being.

“But, this is perfect! I always wanted a little brother or sister. I mean, I thought I’d be a little closer to their age, but now I have at least a chance of getting one of each. You two said no. You always said, ‘one child is enough.”

Wendell laughs and crosses the room to fold his arms around his daughter. “We meant it, but then somebody went and wiped herself from our minds. So, don’t you think for one second, young lady, that you’re gonna be getting out of diaper duty.”

Hermione laughs. “Sign me up. All you have to do is call. I’ll just pop over from London anytime, day or night.”

“London, eh? You have plans?”

Hermione nods, displaying just a tiny bit of uncertainty. “I’d like to try for a post with the Ministry of Magic – specifically the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Professor McGonagall thinks I’ve got a good shot even though I missed the last year of school. She says she’ll give up what little she has of her summer to help me prepare for my NEWT’s in six weeks; which I have to pass with flying colors if I’m going to have any hope of getting such a position. I’d like to change the laws that are written in open opposition to anyone who isn’t pure-blood. I’d like to make them more inclusive.”

Monica raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like an arduous undertaking.”

Hermione shrugs. “I survived a battle against one of the darkest wizards in centuries. Not to sound glib, but I think I can handle it.”

“And what about you and this Potter boy?” Her dad winks.

Hermione takes ½ step away from him, holding out her hands and shaking her head. “No Dad. You’ve got the wrong idea. Harry is my friend. He’s a great friend, but he is… just my friend.”

Wendell squints in surprise. “Oh? You went to a positively herculean amount of trouble for a boy who is ‘just a friend.”

“Yes, I did. He deserved it. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s just a friend.” She clears her throat. “Actually, since you brought it up… I’m with Ron.”

Monica smiles as if she has expected such an announcement for quite some time. “Ron Weasley.” She prods the memory of her confused husband.

“The ginger-haired one with the expressive face that gives away all his secrets?”

Hermione nods eagerly. “That’s him. I need to send him an owl. He wanted to come with me on this trip. I told him that it would be better if I was alone. He’ll be worried until he hears from me, and probably in a foul temper. I’m sure he’s driving his family mad.” She reaches for her bag in the center of the kitchen table and while she is rummaging through her pocketbook, a glowing gold medallion spills out of it catching the attention of all three.

Picking it up with tentative fingers, Hermione puzzles aloud, talking to herself. “That’s odd.”

Her dad places a hand on her shoulder. “What’s odd exactly? I mean, other than the fact that you’re holding a gold coin that is glowing.”

“This is my coin for the D.A. It’s how we used to communicate with each other - schedule meetings, and practice sessions. We haven’t used them in a while. It shouldn’t be glowing – unless they’re trying to reach me for some reason. I need to call Ron. He’ll know what’s going on.”

*****

In the subbasement below the potions laboratory, Filius Flitwick quick steps around two members of the AMR squad and dashes to McGonagall’s side breathlessly. “Minerva, they’re here.” He declares in an urgent whisper.

Busy mending an elongated crack in the wall of the basement, McGonagall finishes a downward stroke before lowering her wand. “What?” She presses a lace-lined handkerchief to the hollow of her perspiring neck. “Oh, I’m sorry. Hello, Filius. Who’s here?”

“The board of governors, or more precisely, what’s left of the board of governors.”

“What? Now?”

He nods. “Yes, I am afraid so.”

She sighs, “Of course, they are. Shacklebolt told me he would stall them as long as he could. I guess I should be grateful he could stall them this long.”

“What you want me to do? I tried explaining that you are very busy, and that no meeting has been properly scheduled. The Cosgrove woman seems – this may sound odd, but she seems as if she’s a woman standing on a precipice waiting to jump.”

McGonagall smirks. “Then Ralinda hasn’t changed in the last 50 years. Where are they now?” 

“In the entrance hall.”

“Alright, you stay here. Take my place. I’ll go up.”

Flitwick nods and pulls out his wand without another word as McGonagall puts purpose in her stride, but at the same time refuses to hurry. 

Turning back on afterthought, she asks, “How do I look?”

Flitwick gives her the once over before he answers honestly. “Like you and ½ dozen other people have been repairing the foundation of a war-torn 1500-year-old castle.”

“Lovely.” She mutters mordantly beneath her breath.

Even before she has time enough to rethink turning her wand on herself, Flitwick offers, “Not that you asked me, but I’d go just like that if I were you.”

McGonagall squints.

“It’s not by accident that they showed up here without first going through proper channels to schedule a meeting. They’re trying to catch you off guard - to unnerve you. Use the shock value to your own advantage. Give them a taste of their own medicine. War is messy, and you’re busy woman with many demands on your time. Don’t pretend otherwise, especially not just for their comfort. Let them see you just as you are. If they want a presentable Headmistress, all bright and shiny like a freshly minted penny, which is pretty much worthless these days, then suggest to them that they should have been polite enough to call ahead.”

McGonagall touches his shoulder in thanks before she turns and steps away with her robes snapping softly around her heels. 

Halfway up to the ground floor level of the building she points her wand and, without uttering a single word, she calls for the castle’s floor plan and the newly drawn schematic that details all the current damage. By the time she steps out of the stairwell, she has them in hand, and when she opens the western door to the entrance hall, seven people - three men and four women - turn to face her expectantly.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Hogwarts. If you will be so kind as to follow me, we will be meeting in…”

A witch in her mid-sixties who is over six feet tall in her stockings, and still finds it necessary to wear 3-inch heels, gives a soft yelp of surprise. “My stars, Minerva! You look as though you’ve taken up prize fighting!”

“Hello Ralinda. It’s nice to see you too. You still look as if you’ve just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly. Still dressing to compete with girls ¼ your age, I see.”

Ralinda Cosgrove throws her a dazzling smile, completely unaware of the fact that McGonagall doesn’t consider her own words a compliment. However, the well-delivered slight isn’t lost to Narcissa Malfoy who snaps to attention, suddenly more interested in being present than she is in inspecting her own manicure, which is what she had been doing prior to McGonagall’s arrival.

“As I was saying, if you will all follow me to the Great Hall. I’m afraid my office is not large enough to accommodate all eight of us.”

“Your office?” Narcissa seeks an explanation. “The new minister gave us reason to believe that you have assumed the role of headmistress.”

“Oh good.” McGonagall offers her a chilly smile. “Then you have been in touch with Minister Shacklebolt. You have at least some awareness of what’s going on here.”

Narcissa nods noncommittally. “A very small idea. Your communication with the board of governors has been rather vague in the last few days.”

“Forgive me. I’ve been a wee bit busy, and I received your first request for information the same evening as the conclusion of the battle. At that point in time, we were still gathering information. It was impossible to pass on what we didn’t yet know for ourselves.”

“We?”

“The remaining staff and myself – and while I’m explaining things – I have not…” McGonagall forms quote marks in the air with her fingers. “assumed’ any position. Prior to his death - prior to all this nonsense - Albus Dumbledore chose me as his deputy headmistress. That means, by right, the position of headmistress is now mine, and it is my full intention to serve this school, as I always have, to the best of my ability.”

They step into the Great Hall as Narcissa frowns quizzically. “You call war nonsense?”

“In this case, yes. I do. I don’t know what else to call a homicidal maniac hell bent on the genocide of his own people attacking a school full of children. By its very definition, to me, that…” McGonagall stresses the last three words of her sentence. “makes no sense.”

“I see.” Narcissa makes meaningful eye contact. “and you would have us believe that your office, as the headmistress of this school, is not big enough to accommodate the eight of us?”

“My soon-to-be former office is not big enough to accommodate the eight of us. The headmaster’s office at the top of Gryffindor tower is more than large enough for a party of this size.” With a wave of her wand, McGonagall produces three wide blackboards side by side on the dais in front of the head table. After the moment necessary to magically move the table back as far as possible, she makes room for the group and, unfurling them with another gentle flick of her wand, she adheres the castle’s floor plan and the recently acquired schematic that she still holds to the blackboards. “At present, due to massive amounts of, as yet, unrepaired damage, the head office is currently inaccessible.” She points. “There is a large structural collapse here that prevents ingress. It will be dealt with as soon as it is safe for us to do so. We have other, more pressing matters, that myself, my staff, and the repair crew must see to first.”

The only unfamiliar person in the group is a plain man, the sort who would be easily overlooked or even go altogether unnoticed on the average busy sidewalk in London, and he gives McGonagall the impression that he is aware of just how often he is overlooked when he raises his hand without hesitation or apology. Thus, effectively calling attention to himself before he asks simply, “Such as?”

“You must be Mr. Doherty.” McGonagall approaches and reaches out, shaking his hand.

He smiles, pleased by her acknowledgment. “I am. How did you know?”

“Process of elimination. Yours is the only face in our group that I’ve never encountered before. Minister Shacklebolt mentioned that you have joined the board.”

“First name is Jennings. You can call me Jenni. Everybody does.”

“Welcome aboard. Now, as to your question, “I’ve consulted with a structural specialist who has informed me that our first task, is to repair the damage to the foundation. Work of there has already begun.” Again, she points with her wand to the schematic displaying the damage. “Here, here… and here. All areas of the castle that are in need of repair have been roped off for everyone’s security and we, as a group, will not be venturing into any of those areas today. The foundation must be repaired first if it is to soundly support all that is above. We are, most definitely, against the clock. The longer we wait, the worse the damage will become. Our intent is to fix it now before things have time to shift or deteriorate any further. Minister Shacklebolt has tasked a team of witches and wizards to lend a helping hand with the repair. First we see to the foundation, then the load-bearing walls, then the roof, parapets, towers, and various turrets. After that we will finally be able to start with the ground floor and work our way back up to the top. I have every confidence that the castle, including all of its outlying buildings and grounds will be ready to reopen at the start of term, come 1 September.”

Jenni voices his acceptance. “Sounds like you’re on the move.”

McGonagall nods. “We have to be, especially if I want my staff to have any kind of a break this summer before returning to their teaching posts next fall. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

A florid-faced middle-aged man with bad acne and a weak chin that makes him look as if the bottom half of his face might slide into oblivion, questions, “What specialist? We haven’t approved the inspection of the school by any structural analyst.”

“I know one personally. He was here the morning after the battle. He offered his professional opinion. I accepted.”

Narcissa Malfoy squints. “What’s his name?”

“Laird McKinnon.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“That’s not surprising. You and Mr. McKinnon travel in different circles. He’s only loosely affiliated with the wizarding world.”

“What you mean...” She sniffs in distaste. “is, he’s a muggle and, if he’s a structural engineer of any kind, he works with his hands. Am I right?”

“Precisely, He’s a skilled craftsman; a carpenter and a sailor by trade and he’s been doing both for more than 38 years. He’s highly experienced, and there’s nothing wrong with a hard day’s work, even if it is with one’s hands.”

“Then, presumably, no matter how much experience he’s had, if he’s a muggle, he hasn’t consulted, or done work on, an enchanted structure of this kind before.”

“Hogwarts was his first, and he handled it with professionalism and the acumen I knew he would.”

“Minerva, really, I’m surprised at you! You cannot show the floor plans for this castle to just anyone. You know that! There are centuries-old enchantments at work within these walls that he should have no knowledge of; things he has no hope of understanding.”

“First of all, were he here, I think Laird McKinnon might surprise you with what he’s capable of understanding, Mrs. Malfoy. Secondly, I do not require you to tell me what my obligations are. The security of this school and its students has been one of my primary concerns for longer than you’ve been breathing. We had a dire situation. The lives of three Hogwarts’ students were in imminent peril. I had to act quickly for their sake, and I did. Those children had no time to wait for the board to convene. Mr. McKinnon was available. I obtained the necessary help, and I did it without divulging any of Hogwarts’ many secrets. I did not show him the floor plans, nor did I mention any of the hundreds of enchantments that are at work within this building or on the grounds surrounding it; many of which I suspect you know nothing about.”

Narcissa’s eyes widen dramatically, but McGonagall plows on, not giving her the chance to respond. “Enchanted or not, this castle is, at its core, a building. Just one of many that I needed a structural analysis of. Mr. McKinnon provided those before he left here two days ago. Filius Flitwick created this schematic per the information he provided, and I am confident in their work. If you’re not, hire your own team of analysts. Bring them in here. Let them do their own work. I am not opposed. However, I have no intention of halting or delaying the repair work that has already begun. We’re just about to close out the first week of May. That means I have just over three months to get this place ready for approximately 750 returning students, and somewhere in the neighborhood of 350 new students.”

Narcissa crosses her arms over her chest, taking a defensive posture. “You’re jumping the gun. At this point, we need to discuss whether or not the school is even going to reopen.”

“No. We do not! There is absolutely no benefit to closing this school. Do that and the only thing you will accomplish is punishing the students who will no longer be able to be educated here. What happened here last week was not their fault.”

“Someone has to be held accountable. Dumbledore didn’t listen to us. He ran this place like he was lord and master with you right by his side. Wasn’t he the one who believed that the Potter boy would have to fight Lord Voldemort? All because of some convoluted prophecy? Come on, Minerva! He raised the boy like a lamb for slaughter, all to put an end to a man he didn’t agree with, but he was too old and too weak to stop him on his own. So, he manipulated a boy into doing it for him. Furthermore, you don’t have the authority or the ability to make that kind of decision, Minerva. You can’t just decide the fate of the school on your own.”

McGonagall grinds her teeth together to keep from shouting and clasps her hands behind her back to keep from strangling the woman. “I’ll tell you what – Narcissa – I just did! As long as there is breath left in my body, the doors of this school will remain open to any young witch or wizard with the desire to learn. If you don’t like that, you have two options. You can leave the board, or you can fire me! Until the day you manage that last one, I’m here - and, according to our bylaws, you need all 12 signatures to close this school and/or remove me from office. At present, you are at least five signatures short. Furthermore, you should know, I have the full backing of the current minister of magic, and by the time you have your number back up to 12, I intend to do so much good with this place that you’ll be hard pressed to get 12 people to unanimously sign off on my vacation time, much less my removal. Beyond that, I have no interest in fighting with you. If you need someone to blame - someone to hold accountable - for what happened here, you need look no further than Tom Riddle and his rabble of extremist followers. He masterminded this entire inglorious disaster, and he’s already paid for it - with his life. McGonagall makes eye contact with each of the seven board members. “I implore each of you… please, don’t compound the problem by closing the doors of this school. Do that, and you will irreparably damage the lives and the skills of generations of witches and wizards to come, possibly even your own grandchildren, and I’m certain you don’t want that! Narcissa, are you going to be happy if Draco’s children, wind up seeking their education as far away as Durmstrang and Beauxbatons? I give you my word, I can make this place functional again before the start of the new term.”

Althea Jordan clears her throat. “Can you really? I’m not trying to be the voice of dissension. Just let me play devil’s advocate for a moment. Based on the amount of damage I saw just stepping onto the property… You’ve got your work cut out for you. My grand-nephew Lee knows I’m on the board. I don’t mind telling you, he’s talking my ears off – both of them. This place… The experiences he had going to school here, growing up here… they mean the world to him. He wants other children, particularly his younger sisters to have that opportunity. He speaks very highly of you. He tells me that you challenged him, kept him in line, and demanded a lot from him. He also tells me that no other teacher ever gave him more of themselves, their time, consideration, or compassion. Quite honestly, I don’t want his sisters to go anywhere else, but Voldemort and the damage he and his followers did aside, let’s talk more about those four underage students who I’m told returned to the castle… After being removed for their own safety? Why was no one watching out for them? Rumor is that one of them is still in the hospital wing.”

McGonagall presses her lips together to keep from groaning aloud as she gives her next words due consideration and inhales deeply.

“You mentioned the amount of damage you’ve already seen and alluded to the fact that you’re aware that there is much more to be seen. Four nights ago, this place was a war zone. That is not hyperbole. Look around you. People were fighting for their lives. People were killing each other right where you’re standing. There were approximately 40 teachers in this building that night. Plus, a handful of other staff. There were also approximately 400 of age students, both past and present. There were maybe 100 other adults. Possibly as many as 150. We’re talking a no more than 600 people present and accounted for to defend Hogwarts and everything that she stands for. They didn’t exactly stand still for a head count. So, I’m only guessing, but there were at least three times that many death eaters in this building that night. To say that we were outnumbered is an egregious understatement. Children misbehave. They frequently do things they are not supposed to do. We were all spread terribly thin that night. I’m sorry I was not personally on hand to stop them from reentering this castle. I assure you, if I had been aware of their presence, no harm would have come to them. I would’ve sent them packing, even if I had to escort them back into Hogsmeade personally. They certainly would not have been here to be trapped under an absolutely mountainous pile of debris. As soon as I was made aware of the situation, I took steps to get them out. Three of them are fine… with the exception of minor bumps and bruises, and what I know are terrible memories. Yes, Misti Rivers is in the hospital wing. Yes, she is recovering from serious injury. She is currently in an induced state of sleep because it was the safest way to bring her out of confinement. Her injuries have been seen to and mended where possible. She is expected to recover. Apart from her, there were no underage casualties. The choice to come back into this castle was her own, and I am absolutely certain it is one she will regret for the rest of her days. People died here on Saturday and Sunday. A lot of people. People I care about. People you care about. Let’s not blame each other unnecessarily. Closing the doors of this school will do nothing to honor their sacrifice, or the way of life they fought for. Give me a chance to put things right here at this school, and I w…”

Suddenly, the doors of the Great Hall burst open, interrupting McGonagall’s entreaty. Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom stride into the room shoulder to shoulder with Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnegan, Luna Lovegood, George and Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Augusta Longbottom, and Kingsley Shacklebolt all in tow.

Glaring at them in shock, McGonagall demands, “What is the meaning of this?”

Harry nudges Neville as he whispers, “The ball’s in your court, mate. This was your idea. I’m just here in support.”

Neville is nothing less than astounded when Draco moves from the back of the line to stand next to him, making certain that he is visible to all, especially his shocked mother. 

McGonagall raises an eyebrow. “One of you had better speak up.”

Neville clears his throat. “Pardon the intrusion, Headmistress. We apologize if we’re out of order, but we have a message for the board.”

Neville lets his unwavering gaze take in all seven members of the board.

McGonagall snorts, trying to hold her dry laughter at bay. Addressing the board, she declares, “This is what I was talking about mere moments ago. My students occasionally do things they are not supposed to do. I keep sending them away for their own well-being.” Shaking her head, she crosses her arms over her chest. “As you can see, they keep coming back.”

The florid fellow with the disappearing chin exclaims, “This is highly irregular, McGonagall! No student has ever attended, much less participated in a board meeting before!”

The board glares at her in reproach, but each of the students present is pleasantly surprised when McGonagall chirps, “Perhaps it’s high time they did. This is their school, after all."

Narcissa Malfoy exclaims, “Surely you aren’t serious, Minerva? Are you honestly suggesting we allow these children to have a prominent voice with the board of governors?”

McGonagall’s surveys the group, making certain she is correct before she nods decisively. “To the best of my knowledge, every one of these young people are of age, and legally considered to be an adult. Perhaps we should treat them as such. Mr. Longbottom, if you wish to be heard, the floor is yours.”

Surprised it wasn’t much harder to get to this point, Neville gets right down to business. “Thank you, Professor. Our message is simple. We’re not going to let you close this school. Hogwarts shall not perish with Voldemort.”

The man without a chin steps off the dais. “I will not be party to such utter nonsense. Imagine, allowing children to make decisions about how to run a school!”

Seamus Finnegan challenges boldly, “What’s the matter? A’feard we’ll do a better job than ye have? None of what happened here this week was our fault. You’re the anes who allowed death eaters tae overtake the place!”

McGonagall raises an eyebrow sharply. “Mr. Finnegan…”

Interrupting, Kingsley Shacklebolt steps forward and clears his throat. He waits respectfully for McGonagall to nod her consent before he speaks. “Let’s not turn this into a shouting match. Pointing fingers will not accomplish anything. You don’t have to be here Mr. Callahan. You’re free to leave anytime you choose. However, if you would rather walk out bed door than listen to these young men and women, I will consider it an act of resignation from the board. You will have to be replaced.”

Uncertainty flickers in Callahan’s eyes.

Narcissa Malfoy clears her throat. “Even if Calvin does resign, the board elects its members by majority vote.” 

“True, Mrs. Malfoy, but as minister, I do have right of first refusal.”

“That right was extended as a courtesy. No previous minister has ever actually used it.”

Shacklebolt shrugs “Also true. In fact, the board has basically been left to govern itself. If those of you who are here today give me your word that you will start doing so in an effective and sensible manner, I will butt out. Continue to carry on as you have in the recent past, and not only will I exercise that right of first refusal, I will consider it my personal privilege to get… all up in your business.”

The students fall suddenly silent, but all of them are wide-eyed; several of them grinning broadly.

Althea Jordan nods almost imperceptibly but it is not clear whom she is nodding in support of as Narcissa takes the same moment to challenge, “That sounds ominously like a threat… Minister.”

“You may call it one if you like. I would prefer to call it a promise.”

“And what will it take to keep you from getting ‘all up in our business?”

“For starters, if any member of the board - be they past, present, or future - has a child currently enrolled in this school, all attempts to use their position on the board to curry favor for their child, or get their child out of trouble, will cease and desist immediately. I find that habit detestable. Instead of mollycoddling your children after the fact, I suggest you teach him or her to behave themselves in the first place. If your children fail to do this, let them be held accountable for their actions. Secondly, you may elect whomever you choose to fill the empty seats on the board provided that who you choose does not have a proven association with either death eaters, snatchers, or the one who saw fit to refer to himself as ‘Lord Voldemort.’ Beyond that, I have recently reviewed your bylaws. It seems to me that of late, the individuals on this board have been guilty of flagrantly disregarding the bylaws that you yourself set into place. I find your charter to be a sound document, and from this point forward, I expect you to cling to it as though it were your personal bible. Do that, operate fairly and justly, according to the guidelines you set for yourself and I promise you, your interaction with me will be minimal. Fail to do that, and we’re all going to get very well acquainted with one another.”

“We have the right to choose the head of this school. We also have the right to decide whether or not this school remains open.”

“Yes, you do. Just as you chose the previous head. He had the right to suggest who he wanted his successor to be. It is my understanding that he made his choice quite clear. You do, of course, have the right to veto his choice. However, to do so, that decision has to be unanimous among a full 12 members of this board. Currently your number stands at seven. Therefore, you do not have the power to oust Minerva McGonagall from this school, nor can you, at this time, make the decision to close this school. Furthermore, I seriously doubt that you could even get the seven among you to agree unanimously on either decision. As such, I will tell you this. As of this day, and in accordance with your own bylaws, I will not allow this school to close. I am confident in Professor McGonagall’s ability to have this school up and running come 1 September. If you wish to remove her as the head of this school then, you’re going to have to first get your number back up to 12 in accordance with the stipulations I’ve already set. In the current climate, I think finding 12 willing bodies will be a difficult task in itself. Additionally, not only will you have to agree unanimously, I’m going to insist that you have her replacement in mind and ready to start work no later than August 15. In light of everything that has happened here in the past week, I wish you luck. I believe you’ll find it next to impossible to find someone who is not only qualified to do the job, but one who also wants to do the job. You find such a person and agree unanimously two full weeks before the start of term, and I promise I will at least here your petition. Until then, ladies and gentlemen, your business here is concluded - with one exception. I fail to see why a select group of students, both present and former, as long as they are of age, should not be allowed to express their concerns about the goings on at this school.” He turns to face the group he arrived with. “Since Professor McGonagall has already stated her willingness to allow you to voice those concerns - If you all are serious about wanting to be heard, and it seems to me that you are. I do know that some of you came from a great distance to be here today, and on the spur of the moment at that - then, I strongly suggest you form an official group. Organize yourselves properly. Choose a spokesperson for your group. Choose a secretary, even a treasurer if you want. Write yourselves a charter, your own set of bylaws, decide who gets to be a member and how those members are selected. I might suggest that membership be limited to the senior class, or maybe year-six and above. Junior classman may voice their concerns, but I think, should not have a seat among the group, as many of them may lack the necessary maturity that comes with age. Once you’ve done this, see Professor McGonagall. Until further notice, she is the head of the school. She has the right to oversee your assembly, and to either approve or veto anything the group comes up with. I expect you to conduct yourselves with the dignity befitting any Hogwarts graduate.”

Narcissa scowls as if there is a nasty smell in the air “I cannot believe you’re going to take this seriously. They barged in here without respect. Completely unexpected and without invitation, but you’d think they are mature enough to not only conduct themselves in the appropriate manner, but also to offer council on the day-to-day of this school?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt looks her dead in the eye. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mrs. Malfoy, but unless I’m misinformed, you and the board, such as it is, arrived here today in much the same fashion – without respect for Professor McGonagall’s time, or any of the things she’s currently dealing with. You arrived unexpectedly, and without invitation. If their sudden unexpected arrival here is to be taken as a show of either disrespect or immaturity, then it seems to me that you are guilty of the same things you accuse them of.”

Ron Weasley’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. He covers his mouth would both hands because even Draco’s murderous stare is not enough to quell the sudden burst of laughter rising deep in his throat. However, Hermione manages to do what Draco cannot when she deliberately steps on Ron’s foot; applying enough pain to silence him just in the nick of time.


	7. Revelations

* * *

Following the conclusion of the board’s absolutely laughable excuse for a meeting, McGonagall visits her quarters just long enough freshen up and check on Wordsworth. While she’s doing that, Hermione slips up beside Neville in the entrance hall and lightly kisses his cheek.

Touching his face in surprise, he smiles. “What was that for?”

“For sending up the bat signal in time. That really was brilliant thinking Neville, using the D.A. coins that way. You saved the school with your fast thinking.”

Neville shrugs. “No, I didn’t. McGonagall is smart enough to know all that stuff without us showing up, or even Shacklebolt. She wouldn’t just stand aside and let them put Hogwarts on the chopping block. According to Althea Jordan, things were going our way even before we showed up. Besides, I wouldn’t have done anything if Draco hadn’t turned up at my place first.”

“Yeah okay maybe, but listen Neville, you got us here. Draco wouldn’t have figured that out on his own.”

“It wasn’t difficult. I’ve used the coins before to call us all back together. It was just a repeat performance.”

“But you gave us the chance we needed to be heard. So what, if Shacklebolt did most of the talking. Neville, just think, we’re going to form a new student organization. With people like McGonagall and Shacklebolt in charge, people who will at least listen to us, we have a real chance to effect positive change. This is a big deal Neville. You could be our leader.”

Neville wrinkles his nose and automatically shakes his head. “Not me. Surely Harry would be the better choice.”

“I don’t know what your plans are after today, but I do know that Harry will be off pursuing auror training. He’s going to be too busy with the ministry to worry about things like student body government. I had to force him into S.P.E.W. and the only reason I managed it is because he’s my friend.”

“Okay, but Hermione, nobody listens to me.”

“They did today, Neville. You’re not that lumpy little boy I petrified in first year anymore. You killed the snake. You wielded the sword of Godric Gryffindor. Nobody’s going to forget that anytime soon.”

Neville smiles again. “I did, didn’t”

“Yes, you did. And while I don’t want to see you turn into one of those obnoxious people who lords their accomplishments over everyone else, I think you should own it!”

Neville whispers, sharing a confidence “Gran says she wants to be on the board.”

Chuckling, Hermione whispers back, “You should encourage her. If she’s tough enough to best Dawlish, she is tough enough to be on the board.”

“Yeah, she’s tough enough alright, but Gran has always been adamantly opposed to such things. She says life is too short to spend it in the company of dunderheads.”

“Then why now?”

“She got a kick out of watching Shacklebolt tell Narcissa Malfoy to go copulate with herself. She says, he’s ‘her kind of people.”

“I can’t blame her for that. It was pretty memorable.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know how well that would go over with Draco’s mum sitting in her husband’s chair on the board. I’m not sure which one of them is worse, but it’s bound to be trouble either way. Gran is the one who bloodied Draco’s nose.”

Hermione eyes widen noticeably. “That was her? I just assumed it was you.”

“Not that I wouldn’t have liked to do the honors, but I was too busy trying to keep Gran out of Azkaban. You know the Malfoys would chuck her in there without a backward glance.”

Hermione nods gravely. “I still think you should encourage her. If Draco hasn’t told his mother the truth yet, he’s probably not going to. He’s probably embarrassed. I mean, what 17-year-old boy wants to admit he got popped in the face by little old lady who’s barely five feet tall, walks with a cane, and weighs 100 pounds soaking wet.”

“We’ll see. If she takes a mind to do it, she won’t need me to encourage her. There will be no talking her out of it.”

Hermione nods. “I’ve got to run. I want to see Harry and Ron before I head back to Australia. Really good job today Neville.”

He smiles and waves as she trots away leaving him to mull over her suggestions.

*****

Twenty minutes later, Draco is standing beside his mother who is talking to Calvin Callahan at the end of the viaduct. Tuning their conversation out completely, he stands there, a sour look on his face, as he pretends not to watch Ron, Harry, and Hermione saying their goodbyes in a spot just beyond the border of the grounds of Hogwarts. When Hermione rises up on tiptoe and kisses the redheaded dolt square on the mouth, Draco sneers and mutters quietly to himself, “Filthy, disgusting!”

Narcissa glances his way. “Did you say something darling?”

“I said, can we go already? I’m hungry, and I need some ice for my nose.”

Narcissa studies him in uncertainty. She knows that’s not what he said, but she decides not to press the issue. Besides, she has a few things she’d like to say too, and this is not the place to do it. Saying a quick goodbye to Calvin, she takes her son’s arm in hers and steps over the boundary; apparating on the spot.

No sooner than the drawing room door at Malfoy Manor closes, Narcissa stomps toward the kitchen at the back of the house. Draco follows. 

His mother says nothing at all until she is viciously impaling a small block of ice with an ominously sharp ice pick. Then, she hisses barely above a whisper, “How dare you humiliate me like that!”

Already knowing they would have this discussion, Draco shrugs, “By taking a position? I don’t want the school to close Mother. Why should you find that humiliating?”

“You could’ve told me that privately, instead of waiting until we were in public to make your opposition known.”

“Oh, you mean the same way you talked to me before you decided to try and shut down my school?”

Narcissa continues to stab away at the ice. “First of all, I didn’t decide. Your father did, but honestly Draco, I didn’t know you cared. I fail to see what the problem is. It’s not like you’re going back there next fall. What do you care if the place closes?”

“I care. That’s all. Why do you always have to do his bidding?”

“It’s a wife’s place to support her husband.”

“You don’t ever have an opinion that differs from his?”

“Of course I do, but what does that matter. My place is beside him.”

“You’re not a robot, Mother. You’re allowed to think for yourself.”

“I know that, Draco.”

“So then, it’s not just him. You want the school to close too? Why? So you don’t have to look at it anymore?”

“Draco, what are you talking about?” She thrusts a hot water bottle full of ice at him.

“Never mind. Forget it!”

“I don’t want to forget it. I want you to talk to me. You’ve been in a foul mood for days... Ever since they took your father away. You don’t have to worry. He’s coming back son.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You don’t understand. That’s not why I’m in a bad mood.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“See, stupid me, I thought things would be different with him gone. You know, better. Turns out it’s just more of the same. Only now it’s actually worse. It’s one thing if everybody in town thinks your dad is an evil tyrant. Once he proves it… If they lock him up, I’m never going to escape being the son of a death eater.”

“Draco, a man has to be willing to stand up for what he believes.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told, over and over and over and over again. That’s great. Dad is standing up for what he believes - and I’m paying the price.”

“It’s what you believe too, Draco.”

“Is it? I don’t even know. You two have been telling me what I believe my whole life!”

He stomps out of the room. When he’s halfway up the kitchens stairs Narcissa queries, “Where are you going?”

“My room!”

“Draco! Wait, we’re not finished here!”

Her only reply is the sound of his bedroom door slamming. Turning back toward the kitchen counter, she realizes he left his ice pack behind. She hurls it into the sink in frustration. Then, an hour later, she surrenders, orders the housekeeper to make him a snack, pours out the melted ice, refills the pack, and carries it up to him; an icy cold peace offering. 

She knocks on his closed door and as she steps into the room, he quickly tucks something into the drawer of his bedside table. Pretending she hasn’t noticed; she perches on the side of the bed and plops the hot water bottle full of ice into his lap. “Griselda is making you a sandwich…Maybe I should have asked you first – about the school. For what it’s worth, I honestly didn’t think you’d care one way or the other. Can we call a truce, please? I miss your father so much. I don’t think I can handle it if you’re angry with me on top of everything else.”

“Do you really? Miss Dad, I mean.”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

Draco shrugs and looks at his knees, whispering, “Not really.”

Stunned, Narcissa exhales quietly, “Draco!”

Draco’s face twists into a repugnant scowl as he groans, “How can I? Why should I? Everything has to be his way or no way. Mum, he’s exhausting! Why couldn’t you have told him no just once? You just had to let him play the magnanimous host?”

“Draco, I’m lost. What are you talking about?”

“Voldemort. Dad just had to invite him here.”

“I wasn’t thrilled about it either son.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him so? Dad liked to walk around blabbing to anyone who would listen about how Dumbledore masterminded the whole thing. How he used precious Saint Potter to annihilate his enemy because he was too old and too weak to do it himself. Don’t you understand? Don’t you see? Voldemort tried to do the exact same thing to me. You let him in here. Now you want to destroy the only other place that feels familiar to me. So, yeah! I’m in a lousy mood! You think I like thinking that I have anything in common with Harry ‘everybody loves me’ Potter!”

“It worked out alright.”

Draco smirks. “Only because you got Snape to make that vow.”

Narcissa pales, her complexion going past milky to downright ghostly. “How do you know about that?”

“Mother, I know about that because I’m not stupid! Now Snape is dead. So is Dumbledore, and Potter knows I’m the reason why.”

Narcissa squeezes his shoulder. “Has he threatened you? Are you afraid of him?”

Scoffing, Draco pushes her hand away. “Of course not. That’s really not his style anyway.”

“Okay, then you listen to me. You’re not the reason why either of those men is dead. They’re dead because of Voldemort. You’re not to blame.” She pauses when the maid brings the sandwich in, and as Draco takes his first ample bite, she realizes that he wasn’t just making up an excuse to leave this school. He really was hungry. “Eat your lunch, darling, and then ice that nose. It really is quite puffy. You should be more careful. Watch where you’re going, or at least learn to catch yourself when you trip. Your nose won’t look half as handsome after you’ve broken it. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

Draco sighs but nods dutifully as she leaves the room. 

Later that evening after exhausting several shopkeepers, Narcissa returns home. Finding Draco in the shower, she slips into his room and opens the drawer of his nightstand curious about what he had hidden away earlier in the day. She’s only mildly surprised when she comes up with a photograph clipped from the Hogwarts Herald. In it, Hermione Granger is smiling brightly.

*****

It’s Saturday morning when the timepiece pinned two inches below her left shoulder chimes so softly that it’s nearly inaudible. Lifting the pendant from the front of her blouse, McGonagall looks at the clock face curiously. “Goodness. It’s 10:00 AM already.”

“You’re off to Caithness, then?” Flitwick asks genially.”

“In about half an hour; but I better stop work now if I’m going to be on time.” Turning her gaze to Harry, she adds, “I’ll be back tomorrow evening.”

Harry nods his understanding, and Flitwick adds, “Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Professor.”

She stows her wand and deftly turns the Comet 180 she’s perched on and says over her shoulder, “Hold the fort down Filius and, when you get home tomorrow night, tell Fatima I appreciate her letting me keep you all weekend. I’ll make it up to her somehow.”

“No need. She’s at her mother’s this weekend. Which reminds me, she told me to ask you to accompany me to the All-England competition this year.”

Mild concern finds its way to McGonagall’s face. “She’s not going with you this year? I thought the two of you made a weekend of it. If I’m not mistaken, it is something of a tradition.”

“Sadly, Talia’s health isn’t going to allow for it this year. Tima is going to stay with her, but she doesn’t want me to go to the competition alone.” He shrugs unable to explain his wife’s reticence.

“Filius…” McGonagall explains patiently. “She doesn’t want you to go alone in case you’re injured, and you can tell her, I will be delighted to be your plus one.”

“I haven’t been seriously injured for 16 years.”

“Just because it hasn’t happened recently doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Don’t become complacent Obi-Wan.”

He laughs. “Which is precisely why my wife wants you to be the one to accompany me. She knows you’ll perform admirably in her stead; keep me on my toes.”

“When is the competition scheduled for?”

“Sunday, fortnight.”

“I’ll put it on my calendar.” She calls as she glides effortlessly down the corridor before swooping out of sight through a narrow gap in the obstruction of fallen flagstone that makes a sixth-floor stairwell impassable on foot.

Puzzled, Harry turns curious eyes to the tiny charms professor. “Sir?”

Flitwick smiles, assuming he knows what’s coming. “Never seen her fly before, have you?”

“Eh, well, now you mention it; no, I haven’t. How does she keep from sliding off? I’ve never seen anyone sit side-saddle in flight before.”

Flitwick chuckles merrily. “She was only hovering while doing repair work. This makes for some pretty low-key flying. It doesn’t exactly require her to fly competitively. Professor Sprout once told me that she would’ve played side-saddle if only she could swing a bludger and keep her mount while seated in that attitude, but she had a diabolical backhand swing - took herself right off the broom the first time she tried it while sitting side-saddle. Good thing she was only 4 feet above the ground when she did it.”

“Quidditch? McGonagall?” Harry blinks twice. “But of course!” He laughs at himself. “I should have known.”

“Wish I had seen it for myself. That would’ve been a sight to behold. Sprout says she was the one to beat in her time. Gryffindor carried the house cup all her years with the team except for the last.”

“Let me guess.” Harry nearly spits in disgust. “Slytherin?”

“Afraid so. She took a bad fall in her final game. Sprout says we nearly lost her.”

Harry shakes his head. “No wonder she has such a strong desire to see any other team trounce Slytherin, but especially Gryffindor.” He raises an eyebrow, “What’s the All-England competition?”

Swishing his wand and watching his repair work as he talks, Flitwick answers, “The All-England Wizard’s Dueling Competition. This year’s tournament is two weeks away.”

Harry’s eyes widen slightly with surprise. “I’ve read about that! You have to be a highly accomplished duelist just to get your foot in the door.”

“I have no doubt you could claim the title within your division, probably several brackets above your age group.”

“Maybe.” Harry shrugs. “I don’t want to duel for sport though.” He wrinkles his nose and then adds hastily, “No offense, Professor.”

“None taken.” Flitwick assures. “Not many who are truly good at it do. Those of us who respect the power we wield understand that it’s not a game. I got into the competition when I was younger hoping to learn to both, challenge, and protect myself. Now it’s just a way to keep my skills sharp.”

“I don’t understand. You’re part goblin, right?”

Flitwick nods with pride. “I am.”

“So, can’t you just use goblin magic? According to everything I’ve read, it’s different, more potent, than the powers of most wizards and witches.”

“Yes, it is. I can raise my hands and instantly deal with almost any adversary.” He raises an eyebrow. “Bit of an unfair advantage against most people, don’t you think?”

Harry nods, silently marveling at the differences between Flitwick and Griphook.

“My dad was a goblin. My mother is a squib. As a child, I was singled out, as much for what my father was, as for what my mom isn’t. In my adolescence, I had my fair share of confrontations, but, thanks to my mother’s teaching, it didn’t take me long to discover that besting my enemies with a mere snap of my fingers made it pretty hard to look at myself in the mirror without flinching in disgust.”

Harry nods again with newfound respect for the man. “For a long time, I was my cousin Dudley’s favorite punching bag. Then, I found out I was a wizard. After the end of my first year here at Hogwarts, I thought it would be nice to go back to the Dursley’s and, for once, have the advantage over him. The first time I ever threatened to use magic against him… Well, I realized just how pathetic he is. How unfair it really would be.”

Flitwick nods. “And winning that way - isn’t winning.

Harry points his wand at a section of badly cracked wall. “Nope… Doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy scaring the devil out of him once or twice.”

Flitwick chuckles. “Bet he doesn’t use you for a punching bag anymore.”

*****

McGonagall is adding diced carrots, and onions to a steaming pot of mince when the back door of the manse opens and a young woman with the kind of singularly hard-hitting facial features that might best be described as ‘eerily pretty’ steps into the kitchen. 

Quietly, the woman in her mid-twenties embraces the older gently from behind and rests her chin on her shoulder as she peers into the open pot. Inhaling deeply, she purrs with desire. “I’m thoroughly convinced this is what heaven will smell like.”

Minerva squints thoughtfully. “I hope not. At the risk of sounding very un-Scottish, this is not my favorite meal.”

“This, I know. Yet, for some reason, you’ve cooked it nearly every time you’ve set foot in this house for as long as I can remember.”

“Because it’s one of your favorites - both you and your grandfather. I wasn’t expecting you to saunter in until later this evening, presumably just in time for supper.”

“I switched shifts with a friend of mine. I knew you’d be here - cooking this - and I’m hungry.”

Smiling ever so slightly, Minerva decodes the message being telegraphed. “I’ve missed you too, Logan.” Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she turns her back to the counter and watches as the woman wearing surgical scrubs and expensive walking shoes reaches into her shoulder bag to fish out a hair clip, a bottle of eye drops, and the kind of small dual-compartment case meant to store contacts in. 

Stepping away from the food preparation, Logan moves to the opposite side of the breakfast bar before unpinning the sizable knot of hair resting against the top of her head. Long dark auburn tresses with a healthy amount of wave - the kind that go curly when her hair is shorter or wet – spill to her waist. Combing her fingers through the stylish mess, she pulls back the sides to keep them out of her way, secures them with the clip, and leaves the rest cascading down her back. Aware that she’s being watched, she shrugs as she removes the lids of her contact case. “I should cut it. I know. I can’t wear it down at work. Constantly having to put it up every day is a pain. But for some reason, I cannot bring myself to cut it. What’s the point of having long hair if you keep it pinned up, held prisoner, 70% of the time?”

Minerva gestures toward her own hair. “I blame it on your grandfather and all his long-winded speeches about a woman’s hair being her crowning glory. I cut eight inches off mine one time. Just once. He never uttered a word of complaint, but the look he gave me! I thought the man would weep!”

“I remember that. I remember him asking, ‘What does Elphinstone think about this?’ And Uncle Malcolm said, ‘Please, that man couldn’t care less. He would love her even if she were bald!” As she talks, Logan removes the custom contacts she uses purely for cosmetic reasons. Closing her eyes in relief, she waits a few seconds before applying eye drops. After a moment with her head tipped back to avoid dripping, she wipes moisture from the corners of both eyes. “That’s better!”

Minus her contacts, it’s plainly visible that the pupils of her vivid green eyes are uncommonly catlike. Without being asked, she returns her contact case to her bag, and steps to the sink to wash her hands. Guessing what’s in the slightly smaller pot on the back burner, she asks, “Shall I mash the potatoes?”

“If you like.”

Tilting her head toward the electric crock, Logan asks, “What’s in there? Something smells bold. Either you’ve found a new recipe to try out with Aunt Aileen, or you’re warding off evil spirits.”

“Caribbean jerk chicken. You will not like it.”

Logan frowns quizzically. “I saw that recipe in a magazine once. Just reading it gave me indigestion! How on earth did you find bonnet chilies in the Scottish Highlands?”

“I ordered the seeds and asked Pomona to grow them for me in one of her greenhouses. She had to wear gloves just to pick them.”

Logan shakes her head. “Knowing that, you’re going to eat them?”

“That’s my plan.”

“You may be able to transform into a cat, but your gullet has to be armor-plated! You do know that’s unnatural, right?”

Minerva shrugs. “Your grandmother thought so, too.”

“Where is the Reverend?”

“I haven’t a clue. I told him I was coming this afternoon. He wasn’t here when I arrived.” She nods her head toward the kitchen door. “The door was unlocked.”

Logan’s eyes widen with both worry and agitation. “I’ve told him about that!”

“We all have.”

“What is wrong with him, Minna? I know he’s still sharp as a tack mentally, but he’s an old man. One of these days, he’s going to come home and there is going to be someone in here waiting for him – someone bad. That cross hanging on the living room wall won’t protect him.”

“No, it won’t. But the one it represents will.”

Logan opens her mouth, but before she can say anything else, the front door is heard opening. Thus, she switches gears and whispers, “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”

Returning to the task at hand, Minerva waits for the ensuing argument to begin, but she’s taken by surprise when Logan scuttles back into the kitchen, pink in the face with mild embarrassment less than ten seconds later and places her back to the wall to the left of the kitchen archway as if she’s hiding from view.

“What’s wrong?” Minerva asks with quiet but immediate concern.

Logan presses a finger to her lips. “Shush!” She grins like an excited schoolgirl and then presses both hands to her mouth before daring to peek through the archway once more.

Minerva raises an eyebrow and hisses, “What’s going on?”

Turning, she presses her finger to her lips once again. “Shhh! He’s kissing Peg Fairley.”

Annoyed, Minerva reaches out and pulls the girl farther into the kitchen. “You’re sure he’s not just being friendly.”

“Oh yes, Minna!” Logan nods in earnest. “I’d say he’s being very friendly.”

Minerva scowls in uncertainty.

“Fine, don’t believe me.” Logan whispers with a shrug. “Go see for yourself.”

The older woman almost snorts. “Well, it’s hardly any better if I’m the one spying on him.”

From the living room, they hear Peg’s voice. “Robert, did you leave something cooking?”

A mellow baritone answers. “Nae, of course not, I… Minerva? Ye here, lass?”

Sighing, she unties her apron, tosses it over the back of a kitchen barstool, and steps beyond the archway and through the dining room.

Logan continues to eavesdrop from the kitchen.

“Yer earlier than ah thought ye would be.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve been here about 45 minutes. Logan arrived about five minutes ago. She’s hiding out in the kitchen.”

“Whut’s she hidin’ fir?”

“She’s a wee bit uncomfortable. She saw the two of you kissing. She didn’t want to intrude. Hello Mrs. Fairley.”

“Hello Minerva, good to see you again. Uh… Robert, I think maybe I should go.”

“Dinnae fash yerself, Peg. Minerva kens about kissin’. Ah’m quite certain Logan does as well.”

“Da’s right. You don’t have to leave on my account. Stay for supper if you like.”

Peg addresses Robert. “Have you talked to Malcolm yet?”

“Ah havnae talked tae either one of them yet.”

“And he doesn’t have to.” Minerva interjects. “He’ll be 87 years old tomorrow. Mam’s been gone for a while now. If he’s found someone he wants to share his time with, that’s his business.”

Robert McGonagall nods appreciatively to his daughter. “Ah hope yer brother takes the news half as well.”

Minerva shrugs. “If he doesn’t, I’ll thump his head for you, Da.”

Peg gasps. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

Robert chuckles. “It’s nae trouble. It’s a time-honored tradition in this house. We cannae get the clan together fir a meal without ane of them skelping t’other. Malcolm is usually the one on the receiving end. Minerva considers it her god-given right as an older sister tae discreetly knock him about the heid tae let him ken when he’s behaving like an eejit.”

Peg nervously pats her strawberry blond hair and looks from daughter to father in uncertainty. “Well… If you’re sure it’s no bother.”

Minerva shakes her head. “What bother? It’s no trouble to set an extra place at the table. Trust me, there will be more than enough food.”

Robert nods his encouragement.

Referring to her son, Peg says, “I promised Jamie I would pick up Mallory from dance class this afternoon. He has to work today.”

“What time does dance class end?” Robert tilts his head in curiosity.

“At 3:30.”

“That’s no problem.” Minerva assures. “Supper’s not until six.”

“Goodness. The house already smells wonderful and it’s not yet three. You must be planning a 12-course meal.”

Minerva shakes her head. “Nothing quite that elaborate. It’s Da’s birthday supper, which means the traditional mince and tatties for him, Malcolm and the great grandchildren. For the more adventurous members of the crowd, I’m trying my hand at Caribbean jerk chicken… But I offer fair warning, I haven’t had time to perfect the recipe. This is my first go at it.”

Recovering from her moment of surprise, Logan steps into the room shaking her head. “Don’t let her fool you into believing that it might be anything less than delectable… That is, if your stomach is strong enough to handle it. Minna doesn’t do anything by halves. That includes her cooking. I can’t eat Caribbean jerk chicken, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be irresistible to the right person.”

“Why can’t you eat it, then?”

“Bonnet chilies. But, if you happen to possess a cast iron belly, and you like your food hotter than the flames that dance upon the devil’s forked tongue, it’ll be the dish for you.”

“That’s quite a description. I might have to try it just out of curiosity. Can I bring dessert?”

Robert shakes his head. “She’s already working on that too. Along with everything else, I smell chocolate baking.”  
  


Peg studies him with surprise, I smell a lot of different things that all come together brilliantly, but you can single out chocolate, and you know it’s in the oven baking?”

Robert nods in absolute certainty as his daughter chuckles quietly. “Da doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth… Except for when it comes to chocolate.”

His gray eyes alive with hope, he questions his daughter. “Chocolate cake with that tart fruit drizzle?”

“Of course.”

Peg smiles with understanding. “He’s had this meal before.”

“Many, many, many times.” Logan declares wryly before Minerva continues with, “He asks for the same thing every year.”

“Every year?” Peg raises an eyebrow.

“Every year.” Minerva says simply.

Robert shrugs. “Ah ken what ah like, and she’s the only ane that can do it as well as Isobel did.”

Peg smiles. “Still, wouldn’t you like a bit of variety every once in a while, a surprise?”

Logan shakes her head dramatically. “Sacrilege! These two hate surprises.”

In unison, father and daughter both exclaim, “We do not hate surprises!”

Peg smiles when Logan completely disregards their objection, drops an affectionate arm around Robert’s waist and hugs him close even as she nods conspiratorially. “Stick around long enough, they’ll start finishing each other’s sentences.”

“I’ll look forward to it. if you’re going to invite me to dine with you, will you permit me to arrive at five and help you put the finishing touches on supper.”

“Absolutely not!” Minerva objects. “You will be our guest. We do not put guests to work.”

“Well, how often do I have to return to be considered more than just a guest?”

Minerva defers to her father with a glance before answering.

Robert McGonagall’s eyes widen adventurously before he shrugs. 

Mimicking her father’s simple gesture, she declares. “Mrs. Fairley, if you can make it all the way through dinner tonight and you don’t run away vowing never to return, I promise, when you return for a second meal, I will consider you a member of the family and I will put you to work.”

Peg laughs merrily. “You’ve got a deal!” Rising on tiptoe, she kisses Robert’s cheek. “I’ve got to scoot, but I’ll be back in time for supper.”

No sooner than he closes the front door behind her, Robert McGonagall turns to his daughter. “Thank you.”

Minerva simply shrugs.

“I’m afraid your brother is going to see my spending time with any woman other than your mother as an act of betrayal.”

“Do you feel like you’re betraying her?”

“No. I don’t. I’ve talked to Peg about her. Peg talks to me about Francis. We’re alright with it.”

“Then don’t worry about what Malcolm thinks. You leave him to me. I’ll make him see sense.”

Placing an arm around Logan’s shoulders, he places the other around his daughter’s waist and steps toward the kitchen. “And you’re certain you don’t mind?”

Minerva squints. “Da, you were married for nearly 65 years. Mam passed away almost two years ago. I worry about you being here all by yourself. You’re used to having someone around to spend time with. If you enjoy the company of Mrs. Fairley, I don’t see a problem with that. If I did, it would be rather hypocritical of me.”

Robert McGonagall raises a silver eyebrow as he hands over her apron and lowers himself onto the same kitchen barstool where she tossed it only moments before. “Oh, what makes you say that?”

Crossing the sash around behind her back, and knotting it in front of her waist again, she shrugs as she speaks to Logan first. “You can knead dough, or you can prepare the raspberry drizzle for the cake.”

Logan smiles sheepishly. “I’ll take the cake. You can muscle the dough.”

Minerva nods as she steps away from her quick inspection of the pots on the stove and lightly sprinkles the breakfast bar with flour. Removing the dish towel that covers a large mixing bowl filled with rising dough, she tosses it over her shoulder, and up ends the bowl. As she begins to aggressively work the mound of dough, pummeling it flat only to fold it back in on itself, she answers her father’s question. “I kissed Laird McKinnon earlier this week.”

Logan, who has just stepped into the pantry, stops, leans back, pokes her head out through the open door, and stares in excitement. “You did what?”

Minerva sighs. “Dear, don’t stand there with your mouth open, and you heard me. I didn’t stutter.”

“How was that?”

“It was rather nice.” Minerva purses her lips together in a way that immediately discourages whatever intrusive question Logan is going to ask next.

Instantly looking for an ally in her grandfather, Logan squints in response to his perfectly calm demeanor. “You don’t look surprised at all.”

He shrugs as he shakes his head. “Honestly, I’m a wee bit surprised that it hasn’t happened sooner.”

Glad to have her hands busy, Minerva is relieved not to have to look at either of them when she admits quietly. “It did. Sunday wasn’t the first time.”

Robert studies the set of his daughter’s shoulders, registering the tension she holds in her neck. “When was that?”

“A while ago. About 13 years.”

“That’s a long time to wait for a second kiss.”

“It couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t right the first time. Neither one of us had any business doing it.”

Smart enough to count backward in his head and instantly know the reasons why, Robert McGonagall offers gently, “Darlin, grief can make people do both, terrific, and terrible things.”

Minerva nods slowly without looking up to meet his eyes.

“I’ll guess that you’ve been holding him captive an arm’s length away ever since.”

“I haven’t been holding him captive.”

Robert laughs gently. “Yes, ye have. It’s what ye do. Ye stay in touch, ye stay close, just not too close.”

“What else was I supposed to do? He’s a friend. Would you have me banish him from my life?”

“No. Not at all. Though, it might have made things easier fir the both of ye if ye had.”

“That would not have made things easier at all. I’d be short a friend. Besides, I tried.”

“Ah’m sure ye did.”

“It didn’t work. He’s… stubborn.”

Robert snorts. “He’s not the only one.”

She turns sharp exasperated eyes on her father. “There was nothing else to be done. It wasn’t right. Phin had been dead less than a week. Riona was sick. She was dying, but she wasn’t gone yet. He was still…”

He nods. “A married man - and ye both were out of yer minds with misery, searching for a port in the storm, a safe place where ye could both feel something – anything - other than pain.”

“Da, that didn’t make it right.”

“No. Not remotely. But it does make it understandable. Still feel guilty?”

The short wisp of laughter that escapes her is devoid of humor. “I will… probably for the rest of my life.”

“I’m not talking about the first time. I mean now. This time?”

“No. It didn’t feel bad, or even wrong. It barely felt awkward. Just sort of… I don’t know… Almost natural.”

Placing a packet of frozen raspberries in the blender, Logan declares, “Well then, you can’t let him get away; and Minna, for heaven’s sake, don’t make him wait 25 years, the way you did Uncle Elphinstone. First, I don’t think you’ll get that lucky twice. Most men don’t do that. Uncle Phin was special. And, forgive me for pointing this out, but neither of you is 18. He’s a muggle too. He may not have 20 years left.”

“Thank you for that newsflash.” Minerva declares dryly. “That thought hadn’t occurred to me at all. For whatever it’s worth, 20 years from now Laird McKinnon, barring accident, or illness, will be eight years younger than your grandfather is today.”

Logan laughs, teasing, “Well, at least he’s not four months older than Grandda.”

Joining his granddaughter, Robert declares, “No, this time she’s gone the other direction. This one’s actually younger than her!”

Logan’s eyes widen dramatically. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that!”

Minerva scoffs. “By less than 3 ½ years. You don’t have to make it sound as if I’m cradle-robbing.”

When Logan giggles, Minerva sighs, “Why do I tell you two anything?”

*****

Three hours later, Jack McGonagall wipes his wet feet on the mat and steps into the foyer of the manse with his young daughter on his hip. Pausing to hold the door open for his wife, Nina, he calls out loudly, making their arrival known over the noise of multiple voices. “Anybody home?”

Logan is the first to greet them as they step into the drawing room and she instantly reaches out for the redheaded toddler in his arms, who squeals effervescently, “Lo-lo!”

Kissing the little girl’s forehead, Logan breathes in the scent of baby shampoo as she says, “Hiya Casey!” Nudging Jack affectionately, she says, “Everybody’s home. Except for your dad. Why is he always the last one to arrive?”

Before Jack can answer, Kellan, their dark-haired cousin who is the same age as Jack declares archly, “Knock it off Logan! He’s your father too.”

Logan’s gaze slides to the bottle in Kellan’s hand and she wishes she could blame his sour mood on its contents. “Actually, he’s not.”

“He adopted you, he raised you. He gave you a last name.”

“And I love him for it. That doesn’t negate the fact that he’s my uncle, and if he doesn’t mind my calling him that, I don’t see why you should.”

Jack interjects. “She has a point, Kellan.”

“Sure, stick up fir her, just like always. God forbid ye should try anything original.”

Jack shoves his fingers through his rain-streaked red hair. “Cousin, I just got here. We haven’t even got our macks oof yet. It’s Grandda’s birthday supper. Can we please make it tae dessert a’fore ye start antagonizin’ people?”

“What antagonizing people? I’m just saying he took the stray in. She owes him a wee bit more respect, I think.”

Robert McGonagall comes down the stairs dressed for dinner. “Kellan, sit up straight, lad. Stop lying aboot! Ah’ll be thankin’ you tae take yer feet off my sofa, and leave your cousin be. You’ve been here less than 20 minutes. Yer aunt has nae been cookin’ for hours just fir ye tae come in here and give us all indigestion a’fore we’re even seated at the table. And, ye ken full well that alcohol is nae permitted in this house. Get rid of it noo!”

He walks out of the room without a backward glance and isn’t there to witness his grandson coming lazily to his feet before snapping off a stiff salute as he mutters, “Yes sir, Reverend.”

No one speaks until the front door slams in his wake, and then little Casey wants to know, “Logan, why is he such a grouch-face?”

“I’m not sure pixie. I only know that he always has been.”

“Maybe he needs a hug.”

Jack pats his daughter’s head. “He got just as many hugs as anybody else who grew up in this house darlin.”

Casey shrugs. “Okay then, if hugs don’t work, I’ll stomp on his feets.”

Logan laughs merrily. “What’s this? If you can’t love him into a better mood, you’ll stomp him into one?”

Casey nods exuberantly as her mother adds, “Those feet may be tiny, but they are lethal.”

“Oh, I see, I guess Kellan, had better shape up then, huh?”

“Take me to the kitchen.”

Logan smiles. Take you to the kitchen? What am I, your personal valet?”

“Looo-gan, I don’t eben know what that is. I just wanna go to the kitchen.”

Nina speaks up. Born in Brooklyn, she is the only person in the house not in possession of a Scottish, or even a European accent. “Honey, say please. Don’t just order Logan around.”

“Pleeeease, take me to the kitchen.”

Smiling at the others, Logan jets away making car engine noises with her mouth while the child in her arms laughs happily. In the dining room, they glide around Peg who just came from the kitchen and is calling over her shoulder, “How many place settings?”

Minerva thinks for a moment before answering, “Twelve at the table. Oh, and somebody needs to go up to the attic to get the second highchair and bring it down. I’m sure it’ll have to be cleaned before we can put either of the little ones in it.

Robert answers his daughter. “It’s not in the attic. I brought it down yesterday and cleaned it. It’s folded up in the left-hand corner of the cupboard under the stairs.”

Peg jokes lightheartedly. “Robert, if your family gets any bigger you are going to need a second dining table.”

He laughs. “Dinnae look at me. Ah stopped contributing tae the population crisis decades ago. It’s them that keep multiplying like randy wee bunnies.”

Casey’s little face lights up. “Who’s gots bunnies? I want a bunny.” She yells, “Da, can I have a bunny?”

Just knowing that his little girl will be talking about bunny rabbits for the next three months, Jack can be heard groaning from the hallway where he’s wrestling the highchair out of storage. “Thanks Grandda!”

Trying to stifle his laughter, Robert calls out, “Sorry, my fault!”

“It’s fine. Just dinnae go buyin’ her any rabbits.”

“Aw, Da!” Casey objects grumpily.

“What if a rabbit just happens tae come live at my house?”

Jack is heard groaning again as his daughter nods her head with enthusiasm.

Minerva sidesteps her father on her way to the dining room with a stack of plates in her arms and whispers in his ear, “You’re not helping.”

Casey tugs at Logan’s shirt sleeve to get her attention. “Down please.”

No sooner than her feet touch the floor, Casey jets across the kitchen to the playpen next to the back door. Standing on tiptoe, she reaches in and pats the head of her 13-month-old cousin. “Hey Robbie!”

In response, Robbie babbles noisily and bounces on the balls of his feet as he grips the edge of the playpen for stability.

Returning to the room for glassware, Minerva notices that the dark-haired baby boy is rather ardently gumming the side of his pen. Stopping in her tracks, she delays the pouring of drinks long enough to snag a teething ring from the freezer, quickly rinse it with cool water, and offer it to the child. “Here, lad. Chew on this instead. It’s better for you.”

The back door opens. Having made his way around the house with his beer bottle still in hand, Kellan eyes the boy first, and then his aunt. “It’s fine. He chews on the side of the playpen all the time now. He’s teething.”

Minerva takes the beer bottle away from her nephew and pours it down the drain as she says, “That much is obvious, and it’s not fine if he chews on the side of the pen. When was the last time you cleaned it? I know for a fact that every person in this house has touched it in the last 25 minutes. Do you have any idea how many different kinds of germs the average person carries on their hands? They’re going straight into your son’s mouth.”

“Dae ye think there are any fewer germs on that teething ring ye just gave him?”

“I know there are. I washed it myself before I put it in the freezer a half hour ago.”

“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You’re mother of the year.”

Minerva clenches her jaw and chooses not to respond. Instead, she asks, “Where is his mother.”

“Not here.” Kellan walks out of the kitchen without further comment. 

Minerva stares after him annoyed but, before she can decide how best to respond, a timer chimes reminding her that she has other things to attend to. Quickly donning a mitt, she removes a tray of golden-brown yeast rolls from the oven, and dumps them straight into a basket, ready for the dining table. She turns off the timer and the oven. When she turns to pick up the glasses once again, she finds Casey sitting on top of the counter beside the breadbasket and bouncing a hot roll from one hand to the other.

Offering the slightest of smiles, she declares, “Those will be on the table in less than 10 minutes.”

Casey gives her an aggrieved look. “But Meena, Ah got hungries in my tummy now!”

Minerva bites the inside of her lower lip to keep from laughing out loud as a strawberry blond teenage girl walks into the room on her way to the silverware drawer. Coming up short, she asks, “Casey? What did ye just call Aunt Minerva?”

Casey frowns in confusion.

“it’s alright Ellie. She means Minna.”

Casey nods exuberantly. “That’s what I said… Meena”

The teen shrugs and offers a smile. “Oh okay. I thought Logan was the only one who called you that.”

Minerva nods. “Apparently Casey has picked it up. Do me a favor please. Take her upstairs and help her wash up. Food will be on the table shortly. I’ll get the utensils.”

Ellie nods agreeably. “Yes ma’am. Come on Casey, let’s go.”

Before she can put her small foot on the edge of the partially opened drawer she intends to use like a stepladder, Minerva closes the drawer, takes the roll away from the child, breaks it in two, and offers her half back, before lifting her and lowering her feet to the floor. 

Casey leaves the room as noisily as she arrived, chatting away with Ellie.

Minerva helps herself to two fistfuls of silverware and drops it all into the pockets of her apron. When she picks up the glasses for the second time, the back door opens again and Malcolm McGonagall strides into the room, flashes a dazzling smile, and lifts half of them from her arms as he drops a brusque kiss on her cheek. “Hello sister.”

Shaking her head, she smirks, “Hello brother. As usual, your timing is impeccable. All your children are here already but you don’t bother to walk through the door until the moment before we sit down at the table.”

“Of course not! Show up any earlier and people put ye tae work.”

Stepping into the house just behind him, his wife apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to teach him better manners for years. I know you already know this but… his head is made of granite. What can I do to help?”

“You can grab the breadbasket, if you don’t mind, Ailene.”

“Not at all.”

Minerva points for demonstrative purposes. “You see, your wife knows how it’s done.”

“Why do you think I married her?”

Minerva deadpans. “I know why you married her. I’m just not quite sure why she married you.”

Ailene chuckles, her blue eyes twinkling merrily. “Don’t ask me why, I can’t remember why… It was so long ago.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath, “I come here to be abused.”

Before he can step into the dining room, Minerva steps in close. Quietly, she says, “I invited a friend of Da’s to join us for supper. You will be nice.”

Malcolm touches his own chest, feigning offense. “I’m always nice.”

Ailene rolls her eyes, laughing. “Honey, don’t lie to your sister.”

They gather around the table; fourteen people sitting down for a meal. The first ten minutes is spent in relative silence as each of them is busy arranging their own place setting to their personal liking. Robert blesses the food. The serving dishes are passed around the table. When Logan realizes that, even after more than a year of parenthood, Kellan still doesn’t seem to have the knack for feeding himself and a small child simultaneously, she takes pity on him. After piling her plate high, with a double helping of mince and potatoes, she moves, swapping places with her cousin Michael, so that she can feed the baby boy.

Seated beside Robert, Peg takes a bite from her own plate. After a moment, she hides her mouth from view behind a linen napkin. “Wh… Okay, that’s not boring chicken!”

Minerva looks up from her own plate with the barest hint of concern. “Too hot?”

“No! I love it. I want the recipe. But I think I will help myself to a glass of milk.”

She’s half out of her seat when Minerva leaves her own chair. “Sit, I’ll get it. I’m closer.”

When she returns from the kitchen with Peg’s milk, the youngest member of the family is pushing away the spoonful of mashed potatoes Logan is offering him as he chants noisily, “Ma ma ma mam.”

Understanding what he’s saying, Logan asks, “Where’s Mitzi?”

“Not here.” Kellan says giving her the same answer he had given his aunt in the kitchen.”

Spoon half-way to his mouth, the reverend clears his throat. “We’re all aware of that Kellan. We have eyes. “What we’d like to know is, why isn’t she here with us tonight?”

Kellan shrugs. “She moved out.”

“What?” The question rises collectively from nearly every person at the table. Even those who don’t manage to speak wear expressions of alarm.

Kellan repeats, “She moved out.”

“Why?” His cousin Cecilia, who is three years younger than him demands to know.

“She said she wanted to.”

Cecilia squints. “And she just left Robbie?”

“No. Robbie went with her. I picked him up a little while ago. I knew ye all would raise a stink if he wasnae here.”

Malcolm takes a sip from his glass before asking, “Whut happened son?”

“Don’t call me that! Ah’m not yer son. And I don’t think it’s any of yer business.”

Malcolm sighs and shoots his sister a pointed look.

Minerva fixes him with the kind of stare most people shy away from. “Where is she staying Kellan? Is she alright? Does she need anything?”

“She got an apartment. She seems okay. I have no idea what she needs.”

Suppressing the urge to kick him beneath the table, Minerva lays down her fork. “When did she leave?”

“Couple of months ago.” He admits, more interested in his plate than the conversation.

His aunt, Aileen, queries in shock, “And ye didnae think tae tell us lad?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe because ah didnae want tae have this conversation.”

Robert drops his napkin on the table and rises from his seat.

“Where are ye goin’ Grandda?” Kellan demands.

Robert speaks with forced calm. “Ah’m going to phone yer wife and make certain she’s alright, and I think you’d better remember who yer talking to?”

Kellan grimaces. “Yer going tae call her now? Fir wye?”

Because she’s my great grandson’s mother. Because she’s a member of this family.”

“She’s nae home.”

Robert raises an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious. “Then where is she lad?”

“She’s up at the college. She said something about gettin’ financial aid so she could take some eejit art class.”

Robert gives his grandson a hard, disapproving look. “She’s nae at the college on a Saturday night boy.”

“Well, maybe she’s nae, but that’s what she told me.”

Robert returns to his seat. “We will be discussing this further later.”

Kellan mumbles under his breath, “I’ll look forward to it.”

An unnatural hush falls over the table. While everyone else is casting about for some new topic of conversation, Jack points to his daughter’s plate. “Stop picking the carrots out, jellybean. Eat them.”

Casey frowns. “I don’t want my carrots Da. I’m saving them for Puppy’s bunny.”

Nina covers her mouth with her napkin to hide the fact that she’s laughing at her daughter. “Honey, he doesn’t have a bunny yet, and bunnies don’t eat cooked carrots. They only eat raw carrots.”

Casey’s scowls, her doubt plainly obvious on her little face. “Are you sure, Ma.”

“Yes. I’m sure. Now, your dad told you to eat your carrots.”

Peg touches Roberts hand, wordlessly claiming his attention so she can ask discreetly, “Did she just call you, puppy?”

Robert winks at his great granddaughter. “Aye, that she did.”

“Is she trying to say something else?”

“Nae. That’s whut she calls me.”

“Why?”

Casey answers for herself as she reluctantly pops a baby carrot into her mouth. “Cause I want to. I love puppies.”

Peg turns to Robert again, seeking confirmation. 

Nodding, he smiles and shrugs before helping himself to a bite of food. “I dinnae care whut she calls me as long as she says it with love.”

Peg chuckles. Okay then. I guess I’ve heard stranger things.”

Ellie laughs. Tongue in cheek, she says. “Stick around fir a while. The night is young yet.”

Peg raises an eyebrow. “What’s that mean.”

Jack clears his throat. “You’ve ken my grandda fir years. You’ve been a member of his congregation since afore I was her size.” He points to his daughter. “Dinnae tell me ye haven’t heard the rumors about whut strange people we all are.”

Peg shrugs. “Of course. I have ears. People like to talk. I don’t care. I like your grandfather, and I don’t think any of you are strange. You all seem like a perfectly normal family to me.”

Kellan scoffs. “Just wait.”

This time, Minerva does kick him under the table.

*****

Forty-five minutes later, Robert is objecting comically, “No candles on the cake next year, I think.”

“Aw, fir wye, Puppy.” Casey wants to know. “I like em. “They’re pretty.”

“Oh sure, they’re bonnie alright… Until they burn the house doon. One more candle and I think we’ll be in danger of setting off the smoke detectors darlin.”

Peg chastises lightly. “Don’t be silly Robert. Ye cannae have birthday cake without candles.”

He chuckles. “Wanna bet? Come next year. Wilnae be a candle in the house if I get me way.”

Michael squints, “Am I hearing things, or is Grandda just this side of placing a bet.”

Robert shrugs. “God will forgive me, just this once.”

Minerva snorts with quiet amusement as she hands her father the first serving of cake, and then places two slices on Logan’s dessert plate along with two small scoops of ice cream.

Noticing this, Peg whispers conspiratorially. “You have to share your secret with me.”

Logan raises an eyebrow, and whispers back, “Which one? I have quite a few.”

Peg chuckles. “How you eat like that, and stay so trim? You must be a slave to the gym… And if I can talk you into sharing more than one, where did you get those contacts? Your eyes are breathtaking.”

Having forgotten that she already took her contacts out, Logan has to work to keep from cringing. Instead, she says, “I know where you can get some nice ones, if you’re really interested. And who has time for the gym? I’m usually on my feet doing clinicals half the day, and at work all night and all weekend. However, I freely admit, I have an unfair advantage in the weight-control department.”

“Oh?”

“I’m hypoglycemic. I can eat… almost anything I want… As long as it’s not too spicy.”

“As promised, you avoided the chicken.”

Logan nods vigorously. “If I didn’t know she loves me, I would think Minna was trying to kill me. She’s always trying five-alarm recipes.” She forks cake into her mouth, and when the baby beside her fusses noisily, she uses his spoon and scrapes a small amount of cake from the other piece on her plate and shovels it gently into his mouth.

“And cake is alright, for you? I’m not trying to be nosy, I’m just unfamiliar.”

Happy with the sweet treat, Robbie reaches out for more, and Logan gently pushes his hands away. “It’s diabetics who have to avoid sweets. Their bodies don’t produce enough natural insulin to help them metabolize sugar properly. I’m the opposite. My body produces more insulin than I need. I manage it with diet… A wee bit more high-carbohydrate foods than is good for the average person. Plus, on the rare occasion when I’m not at work, and not dog tired from being at work, I swim.”

Cecelia laments, “She was born under a lucky star. I even look at that chocolate cake, I’m going tae gain five pounds. Why couldn’t we have had a run of it in the family?”

Peg squints. “But I thought Logan was the one who was adopt…” Stopping short she covers her mouth and closes her eyes in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it sounded. Honestly, I didn’t. I think it’s wonderful. Everyone else here was born into this family. You were chosen. I think that makes you really special.”

Kellan mumbles under his breath. “So does the rest of the family.”

Ignoring her cousin, Logan waves Peg’s discomfort aside. “It’s alright. Don’t feel bad. I’m used to it.”

Peg chews on her lower lip. “You’re sure I haven’t offended you… Any of you?”

Logan smiles. “Grandda, tell her it’s okay.”

Robbie fusses, making rude noises and reaching for Logan’s fork as Robert lays his hand on Peg’s. 

“Peggy, me dear, dinnae fash yerself. The lass said it’s fine. It’s fine. Believe me, if it wasnae, she would tell ye. She’s nae one for hauding her tongue.”

Malcolm scowls but before he can decide what, if anything, to say, his grand-nephew loses his patience with the chatty adults who are ignoring him, and decides that if no one is going to feed him anymore cake, he will just help himself. Stretching his tiny fingers out like the limbs of a starfish, he magically calls for the small square of chocolate cake on Logan’s plate.

As the slice of cake levitates four inches into the air, moving in the baby’s direction, Peg glances his way briefly, and then turns to say something to Robert, her mouth hanging open in shock when her gaze swings back around to the floating cake a second later.

Instantly on her feet, Minerva tries too late to conceal the mishap as she plucks the square of cake from mid-air. Robert reaches for Peg, who nearly overturns her chair in shock in the same moment that Kellan reaches out and smacks his young son’s hand too sharply as he bellows, “No!” and sets the baby boy to wailing loudly.

Logan smacks her cousin on the back of the head hard enough to nearly knock him out of his seat and then scoops the wailing baby up into her arms. “Don’t you dare hit him.” She cuddles the crying baby boy. “How could you? He’s a baby. He doesn’t know any better. It’s my fault. I was busy talking. I wasn’t paying attention. He just wanted more cake.”

Rubbing the back of his head, Kellan glowers with hostility. “He does know better. I’ve told him 1000 times he’s only allowed to do that at home.”

Minerva stands up and reaches out to put a calming hand on Peg’s shoulder as she declares forcefully. “Logan’s right, Kellan. He is not old enough to understand why it’s okay at home but it’s not okay to do that anywhere else. He is a baby, and there are better ways to teach than using physical punishment when he does the wrong thing.”

Kellan shouts. “You’d rather I raise him the way we were all raised? Walking around pretending we were just as average as everybody else? It hasnae escaped my attention, Aunt, that ye spend as much time as you possibly can away from this place.”

Malcolm shoots his nephew a look of warning and shakes his head. “Boyo, Haud yer wheests!”

Logan nods assertively. “You leave Minna alone!”

“I wilnae! What makes her think she’s fit to give me parenting advice?” He turns back to Minerva, glaring. “If memory serves me correctly, you may have given birth to the stray, but you didnae raise her. Yer brother did that, while you were off pursuing your precious career. Not that it matters. No one’s ever had to clean up her magical messes. No! Why? Because she’s never made any! That’s why. She couldn’t if she tried!”

Minerva doesn’t blink. “Kellan you have no idea what you’re talking about!”

The noise that comes from the back of Logan’s throat is nothing short of feral as she hisses, “I told you to leave her alone!”

The air pressure in the room begins to change as the lights of the chandelier over the dining table begin to flicker oddly. 

Robert shoots his daughter a look of warning while he holds a frightened Peg in his arms.

Malcolm and his wife both leave the table; Malcolm grabbing Kellan by the collar of his shirt and hauling him to his feet. “Outside, now boy!”

Minerva rounds the table at a trot and puts her arms around Logan as the bizarre light show intensifies. Calmly, she whispers in the girl’s ear, “You’re alright. So is Robbie. Take a deep breath.”

When the first electric candle in the chandelier bursts, sending a small shower of broken glass to the table below, Peg screams as the rest of the family backs away from the table. When Minerva wraps one arm around both Logan and the child in her arms, and then extends her other hand, magically casting a tablecloth over the plates to protect them from further exposure to glass, Peg stops screaming and stares in blatant wonder. 

Everything and everyone else in the room falls silent when the front door slams shut. In the wake of Kellan’s forced departure, Peg listens to the calm voice of the only person not rendered speechless.

Patiently, Minerva repeats herself. “Everything is alright. Close your eyes, take a deep breath. Get a handle on yourself before you burst every light bulb, not to mention window in the house.”

Logan clings to the baby fiercely. When her eyes fly open in alarm, Peg is startled to find tears brimming there.

‘Oh god! Did I hurt him?” She turns the baby this way and that in her arms searching for any sign of injury.

Minerva shakes her head. “It’s alright. He’s fine, but if you want him to stay that way, you’ve got to put a lid on this.”

Logan closes her eyes again and breathes deeply.

“That’s it. Good. Listen to my voice. Shut Kellan out. Close the door.” Minerva turns her eyes to the ceiling as the flickering lights begin to calm. “That’s it. Keep going. You’ve got it. Just breathe. Think… Fair winds and following seas. The sun is high, the water is blue, the sand is warm and the air smells like… what?”

With her eyes still closed, Logan answers, “Tanning oil, grilled shrimp, and tequila.”

Minerva nods, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Okay, we’re having a party on the beach and everything is perfectly fine. Not a care in this world.”

“Yeah right.”

“Right. Just exhale… And let him go.”

It takes several long moments, but when Logan opens her eyes again, she immediately turns to face her grandfather. “I’m so sorry!” Her eyes widen at the sight of the blonde resting in his arms. “Oh Peg! I…”

Robert clears his throat. “It’s alright mo leannain.”

“But I…”

Robert shakes his head. “It’s nae the end of the world.”

“No. It certainly isn’t.” Minerva assures. “But you’ve got to stop letting him in like that. If you don’t control yourself then he will... or someone else like him.”

“I know, I just don't handle it so well when he turns on you."

"I don't care if he turns his venom on me. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about Logan. The boy doesn’t have a clue.”

“Why is he so angry all the time? Every time I’m around him I just wanna blow something up. Make something explode!” Logan sits down without warning, as if her legs suddenly won’t support her.

Because Minerva understands that she wasn’t really seeking an answer to the question she asked, she beckons everyone else back to the table. “Everybody sit, please.” Lifting the baby from Logan’s arms, she rocks the crying boy gently side to side. 

Turning her attention back to her father and his date for the evening, she takes a deep breath and says calmly and plainly for Peg’s benefit. “My mother was a witch, as such, all of her children and grandchildren are witches and wizards.” She pauses to rest her hands gently on Logan’s shoulders. “My daughter is an empath. Although she too possesses magical ability, nearly all of her magical energy goes into harnessing and controlling her empathic ability. When she chooses to, she can maintain a barrier between her own emotions and those of others. However, she finds her cousin Kellan particularly invasive. When she was an infant, and started coming into her abilities exceptionally early, I sent her to live with my brother for a number of reasons, but the only one you need to understand, is that it was done for her personal safety, and if you tell anyone what you have witnessed here this evening, you will jeopardize not only her well-being, but all of ours, including my father's.”

Even though she knows instinctively that it’s no joke, Peg looks around the room waiting for someone, anyone to call gotcha. When she turns eyes twice their normal size to Robert, he turns to his daughter. “Nice way tae ease into it, lass.”

Minerva presses her lips together primly. “You tell me how to effectively sugarcoat it, and next time I will.”

Peg laughs shakily. “I don’t think there’s a spoonful of sugar big enough to take the shock out of that particular proclamation.”

Minerva nods. “Please, sit back down. Finish dessert.” She passes the baby off to her father. “I’m going outside to have a word with my nephew.”


End file.
